


Variables

by 0_Q_0



Series: Anomalies [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Kid Fic, Origin Story, Other, Prequel, is 10+ a kid fic??, unfortunately--a crossover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-09-16 19:51:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9287321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0_Q_0/pseuds/0_Q_0
Summary: How Q came to be and knows the things he knows.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The first part of a series

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1.6k 
> 
>    
> Special thanks to Marina--I'm still ashamed.
> 
> P.S. I didn't want to post this yet, but it was in the ao3 drafts and it was about to be deleted 
> 
> rip

 

**Year** **:** **2000**

 

Quinlan is ten years old when his mother dies.

His time with her was going to be a part of his life that he'll ultimately call the ‘Before'.

Despite having lived in a small French countryside all his life, save the excursions to his grandparent’s house in Switzerland, Quinlan's knowledge is expansive. He reads often, and he tinkers far too much. His mother had raised him alone and to the best of her abilities.

The problem with small towns is the gossip that is discussed by grown-ups and trickled down to ill-mannered children.

The murmurs and teasing initially got to Quinlan, yes. But it’s not as if his mother was sad and lonely. She had moved here on purpose, to be left alone and to live quietly. She has raised him to the best of her abilities, ensuring his growth and learning, encouraging his development of skills, particularly in regards to the natural world.

His mother even had a journal recording his progress. It was always his intention impress her and make her smile. Especially when he did something right or came to his own conclusions. Or perhaps, like that one time when the vegetable plant he was tending to for weeks grew to an enormous size. Large enough for him to bring to the town fair.

Except he won third place and the novelty wore off quick.

They had a big garden. It was well-tended and big enough that they were able to go to the market on the main square during the weekends to sell something fresh. His mother was beautiful and Quinlan knew it from the way people would pass by their stall and try to engage her in a conversation.

He hated those people. But even then he knew that was the way of the world. His mother tolerated it enough.

However, she never really took up any offers. She never really seemed to take any interest either. It was only when she lay sick and dying that he felt bad for feeling good about that. It was selfish.

Quinlan speaks English well, and he’s able to fake a standard RP accent in addition to simple American. Meanwhile, German--standard and Swiss--is something that he understands more than he speaks.

A different kind of language, however, takes precedent over all others.

No matter what part of the world you're in, one thing stays constant. One thing stays true. And that is the language of mathematics.

It's tedious, mind. But it's something he strives to understand.

Mathematics is the key.

To questions needing answers, to newfound solutions, to decision making. Mathematics can send humans to the moon. Mathematics can send them back. In that perspective, it's something that's quite bizarre to a young person's mind. Fascinating. A concept he wants to conquer.

The other children at school have always thought he was odd. Quinlan doesn't think so. In fact, he thinks quite the opposite.

Regardless, he can’t help feeling as if he needs to fit in. That’s always a useful skill to have. And his mother has always encouraged him to learn new things.

The only thing he can think of is ice-skating. He’s quite good at it. He likes to think of the physics at work every time he indulges himself.

Unfortunately, other than getting a kiss on the cheek by Jeanne Moreau when he helps her up from her fall, he doesn’t make much friends.

It’s not that he doesn’t understand people. He likes to think he’s open-minded.

But when a man who claims to be his father comes to take him away from what he’s known to be home, Quinlan doesn’t take it very well.

 

-

 

The man is wearing a jumper, and this does nothing to change the fact that he is tall and imposing. He is also bald.

Quinlan is dubious that he could be in any way related to this man.

Unless, of course, that is Quinlan’s future as well. If so, no thank you.

It’s not that the man is _hideous_ , but--

The man shifts in his neutral stance, still standing tall in the centre of the room. Quinlan’s eye twitches. His grandparents whisper to each other on the sofa behind him.

“Est-ce que vous lui avez donné la lettre?” The man interrupts their conversation, and despite the way Quinlan tries to be impassive, the grasp of the language shocks him.

“...Non,” Mamie says, mildly annoyed. Papi huffs, “Est-ce nécessaire?”

The man sighs at that, exasperation seeping into his otherwise neutral body language. When he looks back to Quinlan at last and takes a tentative step closer, the exhaustion is evident as well.

“N'aie pas peur,” The man says, a hand reaching out carefully like Quinlan is some sort of wild animal.

Quinlan scowls at the thought. “Êtes-vous français?”

“...Non, je suis--”

“Then speak bloody english, we’re well capable of doing so,” Quinlan bursts out in agitation.

Shock briefly passes the man’s expression, but he relents. “You must come with me,” He says, his soft tone at odds with his accent, tainted with something like Scottish. “It is what your mother and I agreed on.”

The sharp words of rebuttal die in Quinlan’s throat. If it is his mother’s will, even from beyond the grave, then it will be so. There's a reason why she does things, there's always some sort of plan.

For all his childish resistance, he knows he has to do this.

Or at least he’ll try.

It’s not like she’ll be here to be disappointed. That’s the thing about dead people. They can’t do anything. They can’t be anything.

Still, Quinlan doesn’t want to leave. The sensation at the thought of it goes beyond unease. He is genuinely sick to his stomach. “When?”

“Now.”

Quinlan grits his teeth. “That’s ridiculous and sudden--”

“You may pack your belongings, of course, but--” The man stops himself, looking rather contrite. “Important work awaits me back at home.”

“If you really need to go then do so,” Quinlan hisses. “Leave me here.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that--”

“For a few days, then. Just--Give me time,” He tries to stall, eyes flitting about their small home, desperate for excuses. “I need--my things, I have to sort them, and--”

“I will willingly provide you whatever you need.”

Frustrated, Quinlan huffs instead of screaming. Such an undignified display would have mother rolling in her grave, and Quinlan doesn’t want that. “Just--Give me your address. I’ll take the train and--”

Genuine surprise takes over the man’s expression. “Quinlan, home is in London.”

London.

Something in Quinlan squirms and scratches at the walls of his stomach, making him nauseous. “Give me directions,” He tries. “I will get there.”

It’s not like it’s a lie. He could do it. He could.

It’s simply logistics, time management, and a bit of geography.

Mother had taught him well.

It doesn’t seem to matter to this man. He’s clearly doing his best to hide his impatience, but Quinlan can see through it. Desperate, Quinlan looks back to his grandparents. They live in Martigny, all the way in Switzerland. He only used to go there for the holidays with his mother, it would be different being there full time. They’re old, surely they would appreciate a helping hand around their home? Quinlan wouldn’t be a bother, he’d be quiet like he always is and--

The look that Papi gives him is sympathetic. Mamie tries, but she simply looks uncomfortable.

It’s then that Quinlan considers that they might not want to bother with another mouth to feed.

They’re retired already. They’ve planned their life out.

There’s no room for him in their life. He simply doesn’t fit the equation.

“Quinlan,” The man calls to him, “The plane is set to leave in five hours.”

 

»

 

Quinlan doesn’t have enough time to go through all his belongings. Or his mother’s. His rucksack is full and he clutches his skating shoes to his chest as he walks out of the place he’s called home.

The man frowns at him, but says nothing even as Quinlan hands him a small pot of plant to hold.

Papi actually looks sad as he bids Quinlan goodbye at the train station, patting his long unruly hair, while Mamie claps his shoulder, wishing him good luck and willing him to be good.

Quinlan keeps his head held high.

On the train, they keep to their quiet carriage.

“Are you really my father?” Quinlan breaks the silence, hating how his voice is small.

The man keeps his eyes on the plant. “Are you aware that there are limitations on air baggage?”

Quinlan isn’t. Quinlan’s never really had a reason to look up aeroplane rules other than its physics and aerodynamics.

He’s never been on a plane.

This would be the first time.

And it would be one-way to a place he’s only read about, taking him far away from home.

 

»»

 

Of course he vomits on the plane.

 

\--

 

Good. He hopes his ‘father’ is embarrassed.

 

»»

 

London smells like filth. It is loud and everything is too fast.

Quinlan closes his eyes in the cab. He doesn’t know where they’re going. He doesn’t think he cares.

The house isn’t anything noteworthy on the outside. Inside, however, is another story altogether.

It’s modern. Clinical. Spotless.

Suspicious.

The man seems to notice how tired Quinlan is and forgoes introducing him to the whole layout in favour of showing him to his new room.

It’s fully furnished with the essentials, but again, clinical. It’s bigger than his room back at home.

When Quinlan’s left alone, curled up on top of his bed, he realises he doesn’t even know his father’s name.

Despite everything that happened, Quinlan had reassured himself earlier that he was too tired to cry.

It’s a miscalculation.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i need feedback to live  
> pls let me live  
> drag me with typos and errors


	2. 2000 - 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Settling in.  
> (PT.1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But not really.
> 
> 5.3k
> 
> (links for photos!!! open in new tab)

 

 

Blinking in the dark, Quinlan is disoriented.

Unlike many times before, the sense of comfort that comes with routine and familiarity doesn’t come.

The space is wrong.

And of course, that’s when he remembers.

The cataclysmic feeling of unease hits like a punch, and Quinlan curls up into himself further. He wills himself not to cry.

He fails.

But he succeeds in being quiet.

He thinks he hears the door downstairs close and he waits for himself to settle down. Checking the time, it’s an hour past midnight. He should go back to bed, but he rises, cautious in his movements.

It’s very dark and he only manages to get around by getting used to it. Out the hallway, he remains quiet, curbing the urge to prod around. Following the sounds, the words become clearer and clearer as he nears the stairs.

“You really did it,” A stranger says. There’s something like awe and disbelief mixed with doubt.

“Yes, I did,” A voice replies, steely. It’s a voice Quinlan is unfortunately starting to familiarise himself with. What does he call him? 'Father'? The very thought makes his face contort.

“Did it work, then? You in soft jumpers, instead of sharp suits--”

“Don’t even start with me, Galahad,” Quinlan’s so-called father warns. Honestly, what kind of name is Galahad? It’s a knight’s name from an old Arthurian legend that mother used to tell him sometimes. It shouldn’t be around in this day and age, used without irony. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Russia?”

“There’s nothing to be done--Anyhow, you _should_ keep wearing those. Terrifying the recruits might be effective, but admin and support as well? It’s time to change things around--”

“Over my dead body,” The reply comes, acerbic. “And what do you mean there’s nothing to be done? The last time I checked, your dossier clearly said--”

“Putin _will_ be the new president,” Galahad talks over him. “Unless, of course, I get authorisation on assas--”

“Be fucking _quiet_ ,” Quinlan’s father hisses. “He’s meant to be asleep upstairs.”

There’s a beat of silence before the stranger huffs. “Look at you--Concerned father?”

“I will _gut_ you.”

There’s something about that threat. Because that’s exactly what it is, a threat.

 _It’s genuine_ , it dawns on Quinlan, making him queasy, stopping him before he can take a step down the stairs.

The fear worms its way in. Quinlan knows nothing about this man. To anyone else, it would’ve been foolish to have followed him after he seemingly materialised out of nowhere. Quinlan was aware of that then--just yesterday--but his grandparents seemed to have known the man. They gave the impression that they didn’t like him much, but they seemed to trust him enough to let Quinlan go. It seemed his mother made _arrangements_ and told him nothing of it. He didn’t want to be a bother to his grandparents, so of course, where else could Quinlan have gone but to this stranger?

This man could be dangerous, he could--

The other man only laughs softly. “Good luck, Merlin.”

Quinlan is heavily into his own mind that it takes a split second for it to register.

When it does, he’s torn between hysteria and fury.

‘ _Merlin_ ’ can’t possibly be his father’s name.

That’s not only outrageous, that’s bloody _embarrassing_.

Mulish, he forgets all the fear and stomps his way down the stairs, rubbing at his eyes in case there’s any evidence of his tears.

Both men stare at him from the kitchen, frozen.

“Well,” The other man--Galahad--says. He looks exactly the way he sounds: English, tall, posh, and wearing a sharp suit. “That’s my cue.” He moves to leave.

“Don’t--” Quinlan’s father shuts his own mouth, his reaching hand an abortive movement.

Galahad raises an eyebrow but stays.

The silence goes on longer than it should.

“Right,” Galahad says, turning to Quinlan. “That was rude of me, I didn’t introduce myself.” The man smiles, disarmingly _charming_. That alone is something to be wary of. “My name is Harry Hart.” He takes an easy step forward, raising a hand out to shake. “And who might you be?”

Quinlan hates the way he feels himself slightly unwind. He doesn’t want to let his guard down, he doesn’t.

Raising his head high, he shakes the man’s hand, answering with confidence the only thing he knows for certain in this changeable world. “Quinlan--Quinlan Aurélien.”

The man raises his eyebrows at the mention of a last name. “I see.” He looks to Quinlan’s father, a silent conversation between them happening too quick for Quinlan to parse out. “Well--”

“Harry Hart,” Quinlan finds himself repeating in a frown, eyes dubious, brows furrowed as he helplessly challenges, “Not Galahad, then?”

Something changes in the room. The atmosphere, perhaps, filled with an unknown tension that leaves Quinlan even more perplexed. Either way, he knows he made a mistake bringing it up. Of course it was. It gave away how he heard their previous conversation. It was foolish of him to make a miscalculation like that, peevishness aside.

It seems to be a theme these past few twenty-four hours. One miscalculation after another. Impulse. Emotion.

The man’s expression eerily remains unchanged, pleasant and amiable, but there’s something in his eyes, the way he tilts his head to Quinlan’s father who has his palm on his face. “Ah, well,” The man begins, looking oddly apologetic. He clasps his hand over his watch. “This is my mistake for coming over, I’ll take care of it--”

“Do _not_ even--” Quinlan’s father raises a hand, expression so furious that Quinlan instinctively curls up into himself, shoulders hunching. His father seems to catch it in a quick glance, deflating in a sigh. A sharp glare still remains for Galahad, however, as Quinlan’s father reiterates, “It’s fine--He’s just a boy.” He turns to Quinlan, giving a smile that could be described as awkward despite how well acted it is. “It’s a little bit of nonsense at work, silly nicknames we call each other.”

Quinlan stares. He doesn’t quite fully understand himself and his brazen carelessness despite the underlying fear, because the words leave his mouth, petulant even in their smooth delivery. “Interesting, that, you’ve never mentioned what you do for a living.”

“I micromanage a few things in a tailor shop,” The seamless reply comes, and behind the well-worn expression of neutral ease is a well-hidden analysis too fast even for Quinlan to fully understand. It doesn’t do anything to deter him in his scrutiny and scepticism through narrowed eyes. Under the weight of the growing tension, Quinlan’s so-called father opens his mouth, almost in a daze, and there seems to be an addition to the original answer. “...I primarily work with computers, however...”

The disbelieving huff in the background nearly sounds like a guffaw, but Galahad tries to cover up by clearing his throat, a tinge of astonished amusement in his question. “What, are you planning to _declare_ him?”

Quinlan doesn’t know what that means, but he is starting to suspect he’s being patronised. The dislike for Galahad steadily rises. The way the man talks as if Quinlan doesn’t exist, as if he’s irrelevant, the way adults usually underestimate children and--

“Yes, unfortunately,” Quinlan’s father replies, bland, still holding Quinlan’s gaze. “Might as well, it’s not as if I’ll ever use it for anyone else.”

On second thought, Quinlan doesn’t know who he detests more.

“Merlin, you can’t be serious. Does Arthur even know--”

“Not the specifics, but it’s in the request forms.”

“So it’s not _official_ ,” Galahad ventures in a warning tone--

“It _will_ be,” The reply comes, final, and he meets his gaze, unwavering.

As the grown men stare each other down, Quinlan scowls at the thought of being invisible. Which is rather odd, considering he’s been used to it so far in his life.

Galahad sighs, shaking his head. “He’s just a child--”

“Yes,” Quinlan’s father snaps. “ _Mine_.”

Despite appearing as if he’s been reprimanded by a headmaster, there’s something on Galahad’s features that belies the sentiment that he’s _won_ something, and even through Quinlan’s shock, he resents the man even more. Clearly his father feels the same way considering he grunts an expletive when the realisation dawns on him as well. “Tsk. Go back to work, Galahad.”

“Naturally,” The man replies, completely unruffled, walking backwards. His right hand covers his watch again, however. “Are you certain--”

“Fuck off,” The Scottish brogue intensifies, and Quinlan doesn’t know whether to be anxious or to be inappropriately struck with hilarity. It’s a crisis-worthy predicament, because he’s not _meant_ to be amused whatsoever, especially as the odd threat is delivered: “Fuck off or I’m sending you to Bolivia the first chance I get.”

Galahad raises both hands in surrender, expression laced with a hint of amusement. He can’t seem to help a final quip as he disappears out of sight: “I can see the resemblance when you’re both glaring at me with murderous intent.”

 _Yes_ , Quinlan decides, seething, _I don’t like you at all._

There’s a gruff sigh and Quinlan turns to find the man who calls himself his father finishing up a glass of amber alcohol. Quinlan’s nose wrinkles in disapproval and absolute distaste, and the man catches it, freezing under his stare. He appears uncharacteristically contrite, avoiding Quinlan’s gaze. “Well, lad, you’ll have to forgive me this once--It’s common sense not to waste good whisky--”

“Merlin,” Quinlan says, testing it out, disregarding the strangeness of it all.

The man blinks at him.

“ _Merlin_ ,” Quinlan says again, unsure if he’s feigning his own boldness. “That’s what I’ll be calling you as well.” He keeps his head high, hoping he doesn’t fall short on his scoff. “It’s not like the name you’ve introduced to my grandparents is real.” The fact that the man tries to reign in the fact that he’s caught off-guard simply infuriates Quinlan. _He thinks I’m stupid_ , Quinlan internally fumes. He wants to prove him wrong immediately, he wants to _show_ him. _Mother would never_ \--

Clenching his jaw, Quinlan finds himself averting his eyes the last second. “I doubt you’ll be introducing yourself anytime soon but I’m not calling you ‘father’--Or any variation of the sort. Not even in my head. It’s not for the lack of trying, it’s simply not...”

When he looks back the man is nodding, and there’s something like relief there. “I understand completely. This will take some time.”

Quinlan chooses to keep his mouth shut. Even harsh off-hand rebukes contain information, and he decides the man doesn’t deserve any warning for anything he has planned.

When Quinlan re-enters his supposed bedroom, he pushes a chest of drawers in front of the door just in case Merlin changes his mind and chooses to get rid of him after all. Not that Quinlan would mind at this point, but it would give him a few extra seconds to jump out of the window and give the man a bit of trouble with the locals for his murder.

 

\--

 

It’s slightly dim when he awakens, and he doesn’t know if he woke up too early or far too late. This time, he remembers his situation a few seconds beforehand and he’s managed to brace himself for reality before it hits him. It helps that he’s too hungry to feel anything else. The clock indicates it’s ten past eighteen hundred and he’s disappointed in himself for botching up his sleeping schedule.

However, there’s still enough light coming through the windows when he forces himself up to push the furniture away from the door and leaves that he actually realises the [stairs](http://i.imgur.com/0J9MaVp.jpg) are made of _glass_.

Quinlan almost slips and has a terrible accident in shock. He’s furious at how he _trembles_ and how his own hands grip white-knuckled at the glass sides and he’s furious at the man with the stupid name who calls himself his father and he’s furious at his mother for dying.

He tries to breathe normally and he wills himself not to cry as he forces his eyes up and not down where it’s _see-through_.

By the time Quinlan actually gets downstairs it’s dark enough that he palms across the walls for a switch. One single light is bright enough for him to see most of the room due to its nearly open plan concept. The kitchen is largely hidden away in the [corner](http://i.imgur.com/xwLuGAo.jpg) and that’s where he needs to be--Except the massive glass circle on the floor catches his attention.

Upon closer inspection, the glass is cut in half and there’s a tiny knob on one of them for pulling it open. It would lead right down to a set of spiral stairs. Because it’s a bloody [wine cellar](http://i.imgur.com/ARg0nlu.jpg).

Fantastic. Glass stairs and a wine cellar.

Is there a dead body down there as well?

Quinlan decides not to find out.

Besides, he gets irritable when he’s hungry, and at the moment he’s _famished_.

This is an alien place in a foreign land and he knows he should ask permission to be anywhere and have access of something, polite murmurings of being welcome to anywhere and anything around the house aside. That was simply propriety as well on Merlin’s part, Quinlan is certain.

But it’s not as if Merlin is here. Quinlan’s gotten loud in his steps on purpose and there’s no greeting or movement to be heard anywhere else in the house. Off to work then. ‘Important’ work, Merlin had called it.

Ignoring the prodding guilt and the internal reprimands that suspiciously sound like his mother, Quinlan scoffs, muttering under his breath as he opens the refrigerator. He stops at the sight of its state. It's full of all kinds of things, as if this bloody place housed a whole family of five. Despite that, everything is neatly arranged.

A wave of self-consciousness washes over him, unbidden. The propriety his mother had taught him is at war with his needs.

 _Pas de ma faute si t'es morte_ , Quinlan thinks bitterly and grabs a banana. As he sullenly chomps away, he opens the fridge again, grabbing a fruit pack and a bottle of water. He stays in the kitchen, standing and eating by the counter.

Soon enough, there’s a noise that alerts him to the gate being opened outside and he finds himself slowing to a stop. Looking down at the food on the counter, he tries to decide what to do, but his shoulders are already hunching in defence.

Mother had taught him the importance of appearances. Being quiet and small provokes certain reactions from different kinds of people. Some will find them easier to target, but some will ignore them and leave them alone. Being imposing has its own positives and negatives, and he doesn’t want to be pushed around, but he doesn’t know what kind of person Merlin is yet; There’s no concrete and foreseeable output without the certainty of the informational input.

And so the door opens without him having made a decision. He doesn’t have a direct line of sight to the door but going from the sounds, Merlin seems rather harried, on his way towards where Quinlan is and--

Quinlan flinches, shoulders rising without his permission.

Merlin stops, double-taking at the sight of him. “Ah. You’re awake.”

Quinlan can’t do anything but stare, frozen. The man looks _dangerous_ , and his mind won’t stop disturbing him with all the possibilities.

Eventually, Merlin begins to appear rather guilty as he looks down at himself, his sharp suit, the black collared shirt, the tie that blends with it. “It’s...a work attire.”

Quinlan nods quickly, averting his gaze and swallowing.

Merlin sighs, forcing Quinlan to cautiously look up. The man’s frowning, quickly unbuttoning his suit jacket. “I apologize for being home late. Work is--” He neatly folds his suit and hangs it over his arm. A hand loosens his tie. “I’ll be right back. I need to change.”

“Right,” Quinlan responds, hoping the relief isn’t too obvious. He takes the chance to clean up any mess he’s made when he’s gone, but he’s hungry enough to risk getting another banana. The man comes back in a soft-looking jumper, and while Quinlan’s still suspicious and on-guard, he feels less threatened.

Less threatened enough to lecture at him. “You’re not meant to put a banana in the refrigerator--Say yes if you understand.” Suppose it helps that he’s angry and embarrassed of feeling afraid in the first place.

Merlin blinks at him. “...Wouldn’t that help keep it fresh?”

Quinlan holds up a banana. “If it’s not fully ripened, no,” He explains, mildly annoyed. “The ripening process is interrupted, thus, you get a sad banana, unable to reach his prime and his purpose in existence. A sad and cold banana.”

The man stares at him and the banana for a moment before nodding gravely.

The silence begins to turn awkward and Quinlan finishes his meal.

Merlin clears his throat. “Again, I apologise for being late. What do you feel like having for dinner?”

“...I just _had_ dinner,” Quinlan answers like he’s daft. Merlin looks perplexed and Quinlan sighs. “I am able to take care of myself. You don’t need to do anything different than you did before I came here.”

Shaking his head, Merlin disagrees. “You’re my responsibility now.”

There’s something so infuriating about his awkward sincerity that a part of Quinlan is already planning to run away. For now, he simply goes along with it. “Alright--Whatever you feel like having for dinner, I’ll just have some of that, then.”

It’s tempting to make fun of Merlin’s relief, but something else dawns on him, a ridiculous amount of fear accompanying the thought, and he blurts it out in a demand. “Where is Excalibur?”

“Excuse me?” Merlin stares at him.

Quinlan feels himself flush with shame. “My--” He gestures aimlessly. “My plant.”

“I left it in the back garden--” He nods to the tall glass sliding doors beyond the dining table.

“Oh,” Quinlan utters, feeble. “I’ll--May I keep him in my room?” He fights the shame as the words leave him. “I’ll take him out every day for sun and nutrients.”

Quinlan hates being observed, but he doesn’t know whether he prefers the cruel judgements of the children he’s had to deal with or Merlin’s careful neutrality that gives nothing away. “I suppose,” Merlin finally allows. “As long as it doesn’t make a mess.”

“Of course not,” Quinlan utters, already making his way towards the sliding doors. It takes a whole five seconds to open the bloody thing and he’s blinded by the sudden flood of light that attacks him the moment he gets out. He curses under his breath but finds his small pot of plant right on the outdoor round table.

“Apologies about the light,” says Merlin, peeking out at him from behind the doors. “They’re motion-sensor.”

Quinlan scowls as he checks over his plant. Thankfully, all seems well.

 

»

 

“...Why ‘Excalibur’?” Merlin asks him over dinner.

Quinlan pushes around the meat he put in his plate for show. “Why do you have an egg-shaped dining [table](http://i.imgur.com/wFhY6mQ.jpg)?”

Merlin looks rather contrite and Quinlan tries not to feel like he’s won something. Or at least let it show. “It was a decision borne out of bad advice.”

He doesn’t quite know what propels him to ask, “Was I?”

Merlin clearly doesn’t get it at first, but when he does, he sits up straighter and clears his throat. “Your mother and I were great friends.”

“And?” A part of Quinlan doesn’t want to know the details, but he knows he has to. He wants to get over it. “Where were you? Not that we ever _needed_ you,” He can’t help but say, watching Merlin’s mouth thin. “But I’ve never heard much about you.”

“Yes, well--That was your mother’s decision. She wanted to raise you a certain way and I respected her decision. It was an amicable agreement.”

It’s not that Quinlan thinks he’s lying. Quite the opposite, in fact. But he senses there are a few things being left out. Begrudgingly, he can accept the reality that it takes time to know all these things, so he answers Merlin’s question. “Mother used to read me _Le morte d'Arthur_. Suppose there’s an irony there, Merlin.”

Merlin looks down at Quinlan’s food instead of holding his gaze, and Quinlan doesn’t know what to feel about that. Either way, he lets his tone be upbeat. “Excalibur is a sword, yes? It’s a radish plant, so I was hoping he’d grow in a sword shape. Mother said it was possible.”

There’s a close-mouthed smile and a nod. The blessed silence doesn’t last long when Merlin ventures, “...Are you a vegetarian?”

“No,” Quinlan answers, feeling slightly defensive. “I eat meat sometimes. Just…”

“Alright. In addition to asking me whatever you may need to cultivate certain skills on top of basic necessities, don’t hesitate to tell me things you believe I should know about. Whether it’s dietary restrictions or simple preferences…” Merlin trails off. He clears his throat. “Would you mind filling out a questionnaire?”

Quinlan stares at him. Merlin has the decency to look ashamed for a moment. But then again, this could be an opportunity.

“It’s only logical,” Quinlan agrees. “So long as you fill one out too.”

Merlin nods. “Very well.”

“Also,” Quinlan can’t help but complain, feeling braver, “What the hell is with the wine cellar being a literal hole in the middle of the room?”

 

»»

 

As tempted as he is, Quinlan doesn't block his door anymore. It simply takes too much effort. Especially when he's just woken up, because he tends to lack strength the first ten or so minutes.

It’s been a few days of walking around each other when they have the time to. Merlin works _frequently_. Even if he gets home for an early dinner, he’s always in his office on the ground floor more often than not. He tends to leave the door open, to dispel any suspicions, no doubt, but it’s closed when he’s talking to someone.

The noise level from the other side is practically non-existent, but Quinlan only knows he’s talking to someone because Merlin curses so loud it registers as a muffle. And Quinlan only knows that because sometimes Merlin doesn’t make it to his office in time.

Oddly enough, Merlin takes to wearing jumpers now. More often than not the same one, actually. Presumably at work as well, considering that’s what he comes home in.

Not that Quinlan’s complaining.

The questionnaire he’s gotten--late--from Merlin is bland and brief in answers. Informative, nevertheless. The man’s Scottish-- _obviously_ \--works in a tailor shop-- _mhm, yes, alright_ \--had a dog once, not anymore-- _curious_ \--favourite food? ‘ _Don’t mind anything,_ ’ it says. Dislikes? ‘ _Petulant co-workers._ ’

The most important fact of all is, of course, his name, which is, lo and behold, ‘ _Merlin_ ’. Quinlan can at least appreciate the hesitation mark at the starting point of the letter ‘M’, where the ink had slightly bled through the paper.

That’s fine. Quinlan might not stay long after all.

He’s terribly bored. Merlin had showed him how to operate the television after Quinlan simply remarked they didn’t have one back at the cottage, and Merlin did so with badly hidden pity in his expression, the idiot. Just because Quinlan and his mother didn’t have one doesn't mean he’s never seen one before. Nor does it mean he wasn’t halfway in putting one back together post reverse-engineering it with his mother’s aid.

With a bit of longing, he constantly wonders what’s happened to it. Along with everything else they owned.

A couple of collective hours in front of the television leaves him restless with a certain kind of irritation steadily on the rise. The few books in his bookshelf that his room came with are mostly fiction or children’s books. Frankly, he’s offended.

“Merlin,” Quinlan begins, trying not to be visibly annoyed. “Might I go to the library for some books?” He waits impatiently for the words to register to Merlin. The man ultimately stops in his fervent writing, frowning down at paperwork before looking up at him. “Library?”

“Yes. Where the books are.”

Mild distress briefly passes through Merlin’s expression. “I think I have a day off coming up…” He trails off, and Quinlan has a suspicion that Merlin doesn’t only know that he _doesn’t_ have a day off, he also knows it’s highly unlikely.

 _I don’t need you_ , Quinlan manages not to say. Because the man’s trying, he knows. It doesn’t make the whole situation less annoying.

“Merlin, is this you being overprotective?”

Merlin’s brows furrow before he opens his mouth, but it takes a while for an answer. “...No, but this is a different place compared to your small commune, Quinlan, you can’t simply--”

“My small commune is approximately _ten point one_ square miles,” Quinlan tells him warningly.

“And London is _approximately_ six hundred seven,” Merlin counters in kind, eyebrows rising at Quinlan’s attitude.

Quinlan’s lips thin. “Just give me directions. I can handle it.”

“Lad,” Merlin begins, exasperated, and Quinlan’s nose scrunches at the term. “How about you tell me what kind of books you’re looking for? I’ll get it for you, you’ll even get to keep them--”

“ _C'est complètement idiot_ \--I can go to the library for a few hours and read a whole book for free,” He tries to argue without sounding like a child. This would never happen with mother. Any arguments they get into are civil and fought with logical points and compromises. It’s different with Merlin. The man simply doesn’t have the time for him, compelling logic aside.

A sentiment proven by Merlin getting lost in his paperwork again.

 

»»

 

He’s never said it out loud, but Quinlan never liked those children who pout and express their tantrums after they don’t get their way. So of course, he’s always prided himself in being above them.

The only reason he succeeds this time around is that he’s busy tending to Excalibur in the back-garden. It’s both a blessing and a curse, mother used to say, the way Quinlan gets _too_ concentrated in doing one thing.

Suppose that is why it takes him a while to become aware of someone watching him.

Quinlan cautiously turns to find Merlin by the sliding doors. Mildly annoyed, Quinlan huffs and raises his eyebrows in question, refusing to feel intimidated.

Merlin averts his gaze, focusing on the papers in his hand. “Finally got to your questionnaire.”

Quinlan doesn't know what to say to that. He finished it within three careful hours the moment he received it. Two days ago.

A noncommittal hum is what he settles on, and Merlin clears his throat.

“Your birthday is coming up soon, I saw.”

“...Oh." Quinlan shrugs, resuming in his inspection of Excalibur. “Worry not--Mother and I already celebrated.”

“...Did you?”

“Mmm. I went to the hospital daily, you know, before she chose to die at home," Quinlan tells him absently. “She surprised me on the fourteenth of February. Said we should make use of a special day," He recalls, before a certain memory makes his nose scrunch. “Said the next few Valentines I might spend with someone ‘special’," Quinlan recounts with distaste. She could get so overbearing sometimes with her teasings. Granted, they were very rare, but--

“I see, well--That’s good.”

The resulting silence is far from normal, even with their usual awkwardness. Quinlan’s brows furrow as he looks at Merlin and waits.

Merlin glances over the papers again. “The date of birth here--On your everything, really, passports and certificates…”

“Mhm," Quinlan coaxes him along, half curious and half impatient. Merlin doesn’t really the seem to be the type to beat around the bush or basically bother with sensitivity. Therefore, whatever this is, it’s bound to be something.

“You’ll be turning eleven, it seems.”

“Yes.”

Merlin looks at him with careful neutrality. “Do you feel eleven?”

The question is so bizarre that Quinlan briefly doubts reality. What could that possibly mean?

His scrutiny stands no chance against Merlin’s mild expression of nothingness. Quinlan huffs in aggravation. “That’s a silly question. It’s different for everyone. Situational context varies by--”

“I didn’t ask for an academic précis," Merlin interrupts gently. “I want your own self-evaluation.”

Quinlan frowns. “My mother died almost a month ago, and now I'm in an entirely different country with you, some man I’ve never met before in my life. Yes, I feel older than eleven. But doesn't everyone feel older when the world is in such a state?”

Merlin takes his time in watching him before he nods and looks at the papers again. All plans of running away are in doubt the longer Quinlan tries to assess the situation. He gets the sense that Merlin is not pleased, but it’s not directed at Quinlan.

“What was your arrangement with mother?” Quinlan finds himself asking. “Other than taking responsibility and keeping me alive. I require specifics.”

“Did you know what your mother did before?”

Quinlan huffs at the avoidance. “Before what?”

“Before you. Before you knew her as your mother.”

“Not officially. But she told a few stories every now and then. Lab work settings, particular tools she used, co-workers' incompetence and comical qualities. It was easy to piece together. She was a woman of science,” Quinlan says, head held high.

Merlin swallows as he nods. “So you didn’t know specifically, her…specialisation?”

Dread ridiculously worms its way in as Merlin stalls and that frustrates him. “Does it matter?”

Merlin seems to mull this over before he clears his throat. “Part of our arrangement was to continue the cultivation of your skills, your learning. Essentially, to aid you in your growth and supply you with the resources to be the best you can be.”

As elaborate as that answer is, it doesn’t feel enough. It’s almost cleverly generated to satisfy curiosity and sway the truth. “And?”

“...The school system here will be different from the one you’ve experienced. It’s largely based on age.”

Quinlan mutters under his breath. He’d always suspected he was going to end up with people his age no matter his capabilities but--

“There are a few exceptions, however…” Merlin trails off, watching him intently.

“Are you--” Quinlan swallows, wary of what his mother told him about being public with his abilities. “--Will you be assessing me?”

Perplexity causes Merlin’s brows to knit together. “No. That’s--” He sighs, a sign of exasperation that makes Quinlan feel better. “Are you sure you’re turning eleven?”

Taken aback, Quinlan scoffs. “That’s what my documents say, no?”

“What’s your earliest memory, Quinlan?” Merlin’s gaze is blank but it’s no less heavy in scrutiny.

His stomach is in knots. “I don’t know. Human development hardly enables one to remember anything before the age of--”

“I need a simple answer--”

“I don’t know! Three? One? I--” He stops, genuinely aggravated. For some reason he’s doubting himself, because the memory is there, but it doesn’t make sense. “This is stupid.”

The silence lasts for a few moments before Merlin nods. “I’ll take the day off on your birthday. We will talk more, but we can go wherever you want. Libraries and shops, places to eat and the like. Meanwhile I’d like you to list anything that you might need and want.”

Quinlan stares at him, uncertain of the mix of emotions that swirl around, making him nervous and wary and piqued at the same time. “You would do that?”

“Yes. We have business to tend to, anyway.” Merlin turns away, going further in the house, signalling an abrupt end to the conversation.

“...Right,” Quinlan answers belatedly, and he marvels at the hint of disappointment in his voice.

It must be an illusion.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback (constructive or otherwise) really helps the writing and the work's evolution. Questions I might need to address later on help too.
> 
> plsssss
> 
> [Pas de ma faute si t'es morte = Not my fault you're dead]


	3. 2000 - 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Settling in  
> (Pt. 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...  
>  5k?  
> links for visualisation

 

Perhaps it’s how he’s lived his life in the quiet outskirts of a small commune, but Quinlan’s rather sensitive to sound. It’s barely been a week of living here and he’s still not fully acclimated. Merlin had told him this area wasn’t near the worst it could’ve been when it came to the crowd and noise, and honestly that’s something Quinlan dreads to find out for himself.

Nevertheless, he’s downstairs brainstorming on the list he needs to give Merlin when he hears _something_. He suspects it has something to do with the gate outside, but it’s not exactly the same sound when it opens.

Which might mean that--

Quinlan finds himself clutching the pen as he stands and makes his way to the door, silent and steady. When he peeks through the door viewer, feet slightly on tiptoes, he sees nothing. A few seconds more and he thinks he sees a movement, but it’s far too low that it’s not within his line of sight anymore.

Mildly annoyed at having to be cautious to the point of not breathing, he decides to quickly unlock the bolts and opens the door, huffing at the sight of Galahad turned away from him, frozen in mid-walk.

Slowly, the man turns back to stare at him. Quinlan raises an eyebrow, eyes briefly flicking to the tall gate and fence that encompasses the property.

It’s still closed.

Quinlan frowns. “Did you scale the fence?”

Galahad’s expression is neutral now but his eyes are slightly wide. “Did I?” There’s a seemingly innocent gesture of his right hand covering his watch. “To be fair, I thought children took naps in the afternoon.”

“And I thought so did old men,” Quinlan hisses back on automatic, eyes narrowed. “Instead, they are scaling walls. Walls at least eight or nine feet tall.”

“Young man, I resent such rudeness. I’m hardly that old--” He genuinely appears offended behind the veneer of a civil lecture that Quinlan takes the chance to glance at whatever was in his peripherals.

He’s perplexed to find a clear bag full of...clothes.

“What are these for?”

Galahad huffs, shifting slightly, holding his front. It somehow reminds Quinlan of the village drunks who pretend they haven’t fallen off the bridge again. It’s an odd comparison, but Quinlan finds himself huffing back, masking the infuriating and illogical pity that’s been provoked by the situation.

“Would you like some tea?”

At Galahad’s blank blinking stare, he tilts his head to the door. “It’s an English thing, isn't it? Might as well.”

 

»

 

“You’re rather strange,” Galahad comments from across the table.

“Says the man who scaled the fence," Quinlan absently murmurs, staring at the bag of neatly folded clothes on the table.

“I meant you shouldn't be inviting strangers into your home.”

Quinlan tears his eyes away to find Galahad watching him. Quinlan merely shrugs. “It’s not my home.” Galahad’s mouth thins briefly, but he pays it no mind. “Besides, you and my father are established coworkers if not friends. You’ve been here before. I daresay you’re the culprit for this egg-shaped table.”

Raising his cup of tea to drink, Galahad raises his eyebrows. “No comment on that front." He clears his throat and nods to the bag. “You may look through it if you’d like.”

Quinlan assesses him briefly in suspicion but he pulls the bag closer and carefully takes out the contents. Galahad seems to feel the need to explain the oddly designed jumpers in front of him. “I was overseas these past few days for work. I’ve been hearing some rumours, let’s just say, of your father being sighted in jumpers. I thought I’d take the initiative.”

“Hmm." Quinlan squints at the hideous mess of colours on a particular [jumper](http://i.imgur.com/vKwAVl2.jpg). It reminds him of the rags he used to use to clean around the cottage. “You make it sound as if he’s some sort of cryptid.”

“In jumpers, I suppose he is, yes," Galahad murmurs, a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Our line of work inspires a certain dress-code.”

“Ah, yes. The tailor shop.” Quinlan strangely feels himself being observed.

“Mmm. Formal attire, or a smart semi-formal, if you will.”

“And these selections say just that, does it?" Quinlan gingerly holds up a ridiculous [grey](http://i.imgur.com/CW7d5aR.jpg) button-up that has small stitchings of vegetables. “Granted, I don't know Merlin that well, but I doubt this would fit him. Shape-wise, I suspect this is for females.”

“It would fit," Galahad insists with a bit of humour. “It wouldn't fit _well_ , but--” He frowns. “Suppose it would fit someone of your build.”

“Pardon?”

“You’re wearing the same shirt the first time I saw you--Forgive me for pointing it out. I believe there’s--" He slightly cranes his head as he scans the room, eyes landing at the far end of the kitchen where the dedicated space for food and supplies is. “There might be a washing machine over there.”

It’s interesting how he put on a show pretending to be uncertain, but Quinlan doesn't point it out. “Oh, there is. There’s simply no need for it. I’ve been taught how to wash my clothes by hand.” He tugs at his shirt. “I’ve laundered this just yesterday. Took a while to dry.”

Galahad stares at him. “I see. Well, surely there’s no need for a constant repeat of that--Didn’t your father supply you with clothes?”

“I took a chance with the undergarments, but the shirts simply weren't to my comfort. Not only in style, but in proper fit. It’s as if Merlin was expecting a teenager.”

“...Mmm.” It’s seems that’s all he’s able to say. The man’s absently tapping at his watch. “Well--”

“If you need to be somewhere, go ahead, I’m not keeping you prisoner. If you’re injured, I happened to notice a kit generously full of medical supplies in the washroom cabinet under the sink.”

The silence is oddly tense for a moment and he doesn’t really know why. That’s what he gets for attempting to be polite, he supposes.

Galahad clears his throat. “I do have somewhere to be, but--” He pauses as if he’s debating whether or not to broach a topic. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell your father you saw me.”

Quinlan meets his careful gaze curiously. “May I ask why?”

“He did tell me not to come over anymore,” Galahad admits, looking down at his empty teacup. There’s something about it that makes him less threatening, and Quinlan is mildly annoyed that he fell for it for three seconds. Nevertheless, it’s an interesting piece of information. “Besides, I was meant to immediately report to work the moment I arrived in the country…”

“I see. _Well_ , don’t let me interrupt in your usual habits, the both of you.” Quinlan neatly folds the disturbed jumpers and puts them back in the bag. “Any more tea before you leave?”

“...No, thank you.” Galahad says, polite--Though Quinlan senses that he’s somewhat unsettled. The man stands and straightens his suit. “You’ve been kind for having me over.”

“Mmm,” Quinlan hums absentmindedly, clearing up the teacups on the table and standing as well.

“Was that a yes?”

“Pardon?” Quinlan frowns from his place in the kitchen. “Ah, the not-telling, right. I don’t see why not.” He pauses in turning on the faucet, looking at Galahad and the hand covering his watch again. Quinlan tilts his head. “Do I need to walk you out?”

“No, no, I know the way out,” Galahad insists, smiling politely. The man leaves a closed note on top of the folded clothes before he leaves.

As Quinlan cleans up, he wonders if Galahad has chosen to trust him on a whim or if the man will wait a few days to confirm that Quinlan indeed said nothing. Either way, Quinlan’s back to brainstorming for the list. He needs better clothes.

 

»

 

“What’s this?” Merlin asks, arriving late again.

“Saw it outside the door as I went out to move Excalibur to the front-garden,” Quinlan answers absently. “There’s more sun there in the afternoon, doesn’t get blocked by the trees.”

Quinlan ultimately hears Merlin cursing under his breath. He must have read the note. Quinlan tried, but it’s in Russian. Mother tried teaching him that, of course, but they didn’t get very far.

“When will I be going to school?” Quinlan finds himself asking over dinner. It’s been almost a week and a half since he’s been here and all he’s done is stay inside. He’s skimmed the books available, washed a few of his clothes by hand, tried to watch television, snooped around places he felt brave enough to snoop.

He still hasn’t even fully unpacked his rucksack. Whether that’s because he’s not ready to feel at home or because a part of him is still planning to run away, he doesn’t know.

Merlin takes his time in chewing his food. “I’ve taken a look at your records. I think it wouldn’t do too much harm if you waited to go back later this Autumn.”

Quinlan’s eye twitches. “So I will be missing out on the Spring _and_ Summer terms?”

There must be something in his tone that gives it away, because Merlin seems to pick up on the fact that he’s done a great wrong. As he bloody _should_.

“Could you be the only child who likes going to school?” Merlin raises an eyebrow, and Quinlan tries not to be ashamed.

“I like _learning_.”

“As I’ve said, I’ve seen your records. You’ve been doing exceedingly well on subjects and matters beyond the grasp of your peers. What you’ll learn if I put you back in school here won’t be something you don’t already know.”

 _That’s not for you to say_ , Quinlan thinks sullenly, pursing his lips as he stares down his plate.

Merlin sighs. “Lad, as I’ve said, we have a lot to get through. Admission papers and getting your documents ready for submission and the like.”

“Alright,” Quinlan says, just to get him to stop talking.

The following silence is heavy, but Merlin tries to break it.

“Did you finish your list?”

“...Almost.” It’s a lie. It is technically finished, but thinking back on the books he asked for--books on maths, physics, astronomy, geography, computing--it might just entirely give him away. And he doesn’t really know if that’s something he’s ready for.

Merlin nods. “Alright then.”

“I should have it by tomorrow.”

“No rush.” Merlin clears his throat. “About tomorrow--the next few days, actually--I’m going to be home late.”

Quinlan stares at him blankly. He doesn’t know whether or not to laugh because Merlin had said that as if he wasn’t already progressively coming home later and later as each day went by. “Alright.”

“It’s an arrangement for work, so that I can get the day off on your birthday. Just have to prepare a few things so they can function while I’m gone--”

“Oh. Right.” Quinlan doesn’t know what to feel anymore. The relief and tendril of excitement is stupid because Merlin said it himself, they had business to tend to that day. “Must be important work, that tailor shop.”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

 

»»

 

Quinlan oversleeps and stays in bed for a very long time, simply contemplating everything. He does it until he falls asleep again.

When he awakes in the late afternoon, that’s when the anger begins to come back. It’s not only that he’s hungry or that he needs to go to the lavatory, it’s that he hates being here. He hates having wasted almost twenty-four hours doing nothing because there’s nothing to do here, nothing useful, nothing productive. It’s a cycle of sleep, wake, relieve yourself, eat, take care of Excalibur, awkward dinner with a stranger, sleep and wake.

It’s frustrating and it makes him miss _home_. He misses his mother and despite holding back on thinking about it, about her, the longing and the pain catches him off-guard and he curls up into himself in hopes that’ll help in keeping quiet. He misses the air of the countryside, the _green_ , the simple things in life.

Once he’s calmed down, he finds his rucksack and packs the things he originally owned.

He keeps it under his bed.

The next few days are like that, wondering if he’s gotten comfortable enough to _need_ the courage to run away.

Past midnight, Quinlan wakes up and he realises that it’s only because he’s heard the main door open. Almost in a daze, he finds himself making his way downstairs. The noise is coming from the kitchen and so he goes there. Quinlan sees Merlin from behind; The man is unmoving, almost frozen in his sharp suit.

It doesn’t make sense that Quinlan’s disappointed. He’s been doing a lot of thinking lately, and maybe that’s why the words leave his mouth abruptly:

“I’m not your child, am I?”

The silence is stifling for a few precious seconds.

“What?” Merlin turns slowly, and Quinlan averts his gaze, shrugging.

“What you’ve said a few days ago about my age. I’ve been thinking about it.” He stares at the floor, hearing Merlin abruptly taking off his suit-jacket. “There’s a discrepancy, yes? That’s why you were asking strange questions.”

“Have you had dinner?”

Quinlan scowls at the aversion. “Yes or no?”

He doesn’t know what he’s hoping for. There’s the anticipation, but there’s also the trepidation. Where will he go? He hopes his mother’s cottage is still there, along with their belongings. His fingers twitch at the idea of tinkering at their small makeshift workshop again.

“You are my child, yes.”

Quinlan finally looks up at him in astonishment and annoyance. “But how do you know?” It’s easier to challenge the man when he’s not in a full proper suit that’s reminiscent of a film villain. “What’s your proof?”

Merlin shrugs lightly, turning away to open the fridge. “Perhaps I simply got the dates wrong. Memories are funny little things.”

What an aggravating _fool_. “You could be wasting resources on a child that’s not even yours,” Quinlan points out.

“We’ll get it sorted in the morning.”

“What--Why would you wait until the morning?” He demands.

“Because--” The man bites into his sandwich, moving towards the dining table where it’s dimmer. “Happy Birthday.”

“What.”

“It’s the first of April. It’s your birthday.” Merlin presents a dark grey case, compact but bulky in nature. “I’d hand it to you, but it’s rather heavy. I’ll carry it to your room. You can either set it up yourself or wait for me to wake up in the morning.”

Quinlan’s mind is still reeling. Because he _forgot_. He’s at a loss and he feels himself give up, grumbling as he grabs a fruit and heads on upstairs.

 

»

 

Quinlan spends an hour staring at the ceiling, pretending to be asleep. It wasn’t difficult to see how exhausted Merlin was from work, so it shouldn’t take that long for the man to at least be in stage three of the sleep cycle.

Nevertheless, Quinlan is careful as he turns the lamp on.

The excitement is annoying, but it is what it is.

Inside the case contains pieces and parts, and it doesn’t take long to realise what it is.

It’s a telescope.

Quinlan attempts to be calm as he reads the instruction manual before giving up and simply assembling the parts as he sees fit. It’s mostly common sense, anyway.

Time is lost as he works on it, and the result takes his breath away.

It’s a sturdy thing, far from being a toy.

He has to remind himself that he hasn’t been won over, because it’s _not_ that easy. _He’s_ not that easy.

But the stars are _clear_ and he thinks he sees planets in the night sky.

 

»

 

“I didn’t know you had a automobile,” Quinlan begins a conversation for once.

Merlin starts the engine and looks back to check on him. “Seat-belt please--And yes, it takes me about thirty minutes to get to work.”

For some reason, Quinlan thinks he doesn’t sound too happy about that.

Merlin takes him to get clothes first. It’s a taxing experience. The store is large and the staff hanging about makes him nervous.

It’s still cold out, so he wears the scarf as soon as they walk out the store. It is ridiculously crowded here. Quinlan bets they’re in the heart of London. The air either smells of smoke or urine and the noise is _debilitating_.

The second place leads them to a grand [building](http://i.imgur.com/mK4qk3l.jpg) that looks out of place in such a city.

“Alexandra Palace,” Merlin tells him, and Quinlan reminds himself not to look in awe. He manages once they get inside and line up for the queue. It’s rather grimey and the concrete floor has dried gum littered about, some probably older than Quinlan.

However, a few minutes later, he can’t help but gasp at the magnificent [ice-rink](http://i.imgur.com/oRt7kS3.jpg) in front of him. This shouldn’t be a surprise considering Merlin asked him to bring his ice-skates along, but still. He’s never been in an ice-rink so massive.

At first, he’s self-conscious of the crowd, but this is his chance and he needs to seize it. Nevertheless, he tries not to seem too eager as he puts his skates on.

He finds himself pausing when Merlin simply sits there, staring out into the distance.

“You’re not coming with?” Quinlan immediately regrets the words he couldn’t stop quickly enough.

“Ah, well--”

“That’s fine.” Quinlan shrugs and hobbles away in his skates before he gets to hear any of his excuses.

It’s been a while since he’s done this. Back in December, perhaps. Over one of the small frozen lakes that children tended to sneak onto against their parents’ orders.

The longer he stays on ice, the braver he becomes. The confidence washes over him, sure and steady, as he forgets the world around him. Avoiding other people becomes automatic as he skates faster, the breeze on his skin firing him up, making him feel alive.

He thinks he smiles.

He thinks he smiles because he feels it fall when he catches sight of Merlin on the phone, clearly displeased, if not stressed out. He’s talking fast, trying to keep his calm.

Quinlan quickly looks away before their eyes meet.

He tries to enjoy himself, but it’s too late. The feeling of dread sinks in his stomach, and the words come, unbidden.

_I miss her._

It’s a fast acting symptom of a disease, taking hold of him. All he does is skate by, aimless and unthinking for who knows how long.

Numb, he finds himself stopping abruptly, blades digging into the ice.

“What’s wrong?” Merlin asks when he notices him approaching.

“Nothing,” Quinlan answers, knowing he’ll regret cutting his time with the ice short.

“Ah, you must be hungry. What do you feel like having for lunch?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s alright, we’ll have it sorted.”

 

»

 

They end up in a restaurant that thankfully isn’t too upscale.

“I’ve brought you here because of the variety,” Merlin begins. “They have pasta, steaks, and seafood. Desserts, as well. You can have whatever you’d like.”

It all sounds nice, but when Quinlan opens the Loch Fyne menu, the prices make themselves known.

But then again, this is a different country with a different currency, therefore it can’t possibly be that much of an issue. Merlin had brought him here, after all.

Halfway through his meal, Merlin huffs at him. “Suppose I don’t have to worry about your vegetable intake, eh, lad?”

Quinlan reaches over to Merlin’s plate on impulse and roughly slices a piece of steak for himself. Merlin is in shock, but Quinlan only chews out of spite.

It takes about a good full minute.

 

»

 

Upon entering the bookstore, Quinlan’s mood is instantaneously uplifted. No bookstore he’s ever been to has been this big. There are so many books and it’s tempting to stay here forever to explore them all.

After a few minutes of having found a good book, he settles down to read it. He’s barely past the first page when Merlin clears his throat.

“I did mean it, you know. It’s better to buy it and read it at home. You’ll have something to do.”

Quinlan frowns, ready to argue. That is, until he realises the man does have a point. Besides, it might be petty of Quinlan, but having Merlin waste money on him seems to be a good source of retribution for leaving him alone in the house.

“What is my limit?” Quinlan ventures.

Merlin raises his eyebrows. “Well…” Clearly he didn’t think this through. “Ten? Is that enough?”

Quinlan stares at him. “And then you’ll be taking me to the library within a week, yes?”

“Why? How many books can you read in a week?” Merlin asks, partly amused.

“Depends on wordcount and subject,” Quinlan responds seriously.

They stare at each other until a worker passes them by.

“Excuse me,” Merlin utters, “Do you have a trolley by any chance?”

 

»

 

Quinlan squashes down the guilt at the purchases. He didn’t actually think Merlin would buy him that much. Quinlan even threw a magnetic [puzzle](http://i.imgur.com/6v8SXVS.jpg) map of London in there the last minute and Merlin didn’t even blink.

Twenty-one books in total, a dozen of them at least academic in nature. That should keep him occupied for at least a month.

That must be Merlin’s line of thought as well, Quinlan can’t help but think bitterly. He can’t entirely blame him, though.

It takes at least two trips back and forth from the car to the small entrance gate to the passageway leading to the bigger gate and the front door. Merlin is surprisingly strong considering that he carries the shopping bags continuously for at least thirty seconds. It may not seem much, but with Quinlan carrying a single bag full of half a dozen books in that amount of time, he _knows_ it’s a task. Much less Merlin who’s carrying them in threes.

It all feels surreal when Quinlan’s left with all the stuff in his room.

He has to organise them, but it takes a few minutes for him to start because he’s too overwhelmed.

Once he’s finished putting the last of his books in the bookshelf, however, he realises he’s made a mistake.

Tsk.

With all these unread books, he can’t run away now.

At least, not for a month and a half.

 

»

 

Being called down for what he assumes is dinner is a surprise. They had lunch an hour past noon and it was genuinely a lot to handle. The fact that it’s only been five hours since then is something he tries not to consciously remember. He’ll humour Merlin for a bit, maybe eat three spoonfuls.

It wasn’t too terrible of a day, after all.

However, it seems he’s let his guard down too early. What he’s faced with is Merlin awkwardly standing in front of the dining table, staring hard at the ridiculous [cake](http://i.imgur.com/v0BPmjK.jpg) on display. Quinlan’s offence is steadily on the rise the more the design registers to him. It’s a cake surrounded by a massive tartan bow and on the centre is a snake-like creature surfacing from the top.

Merlin clears his throat. “It’s a Loch Ness depiction. On the off-chance that you like it, it was my idea--If you despise it, I would agree and give up the name of the culprit.”

Quinlan scrunches his nose. “Who else could possibly know I exist?” At the words, Merlin’s open mouth remains silent for a few seconds in what is likely guilt and hesitation. That’s when it occurs to Quinlan. “Oh-- _Galahad_.” His lips thin with distaste as he looks around. “Well, where is he, then?”

An uncharacteristic discomfort emanates from Merlin as he briefly scratches at the back of his neck. “I was under the impression that you weren’t the type for extravagant social events...”

“I’m not--But, what, he simply dropped it off? What for?”

“He had it delivered.” Merlin stares down at a small card, but he doesn’t hand it over. “It seems he felt that he didn’t make a good impression on you.”

Now that--That makes Quinlan _think_. Except he knows enough of the process that he can’t make any hasty conclusions, so he simply hums. “I see.” He glances at the atrocious cake. While he can admit that it probably would have taken quite a skill to make it, it’s nothing that a man like Galahad can’t afford. Besides, it’s childish quality is heinous and cannot be forgiven. “Tell him he’s far from successful. He didn’t do himself any favours with that one.”

Merlin snorts, somehow more relieved. “I’ll tell him. Gladly.”

Before they eat, Merlin offers to put on a candle and light it up for him. The man is ridiculously out of his comfort zone that Quinlan can’t find it in himself _not_ to humour him for a while. Besides, it prolongs the suffering. It’s a late realisation, but he’s pleased with the sight of Excalibur having his own place on the table right across from him. It’s a silly gesture on Merlin’s part, but a nice one nevertheless.

They talk of senseless things, like the admittedly high quality of the cake in craftsmanship along with taste, and Quinlan finds himself starting to get comfortable enough to start a new line of conversation by the end.

“You will be sending me to boarding school, yes?”

Merlin slows in his chewing, but makes no hurry to answer. “What gave you that idea?”

“Well, you are a busy man,” Quinlan begins. “A working man. It’s simply logical to want me out of the way.”

The look on Merlin’s face is something Quinlan can’t entirely parse out, but he thinks there’s a hint of chagrin.

_Oh. I’ve embarrassed him._

“I meant no offence,” Quinlan attempts to explain, “I’m simply being blunt. It’s more efficient that way.”

Merlin tries for a quick smile, but his eyes are on the plate. “Your mother was like that. It seems she was eager to pass down her work ethics.”

For once, Quinlan does smile. Because he thinks for a moment that it’s a compliment. The split-second of doubt that worms its way in right after is something that he suppresses.

“Well,” Merlin starts, clearing his throat, “I think you’ll be interested to hear that I have a list of prospective schools for you. Once we’re done here, we can move to the office to--”

“I’m finished.” The way Quinlan scoots his chair back makes a grating noise and he has enough sense to know he should be embarrassed.

Merlin doesn’t do a good job of hiding the amusement on his face.

“Very well.”

 

>> 

 

There are five folders. Altogether they are approximately two inches thick. It’s pleasing to know that Merlin’s taken the effort to gather such information for his prospective education.

“I can give you a summary on each of them, if you’d like,” Merlin offers from behind his desk. It’s oddly vintage--dark wood, thick and prominent-- unlike the rest of the house's modernity. This whole office has a certain air to it. Something like prestige. That is, if things weren’t so _messy_. There’s no pages of paper littered about, but there are slim document cases with _locks_ stacked upon each other. Some are on the floor, stacked against the back wall.

Quinlan frowns. “Do you have a preference?”

“They are all respectable schools. It’s a matter of what you’re comfortable with, not only with regards to curriculum but in...atmosphere.”

Shifting to get comfortable in his seat, Quinlan hums, flipping the folders to start in on them. It isn’t until about three minutes in that he starts to realise something. “This is the third file--It’s still not a boarding school.”

“Is that what you want?” The question is casual, but when Quinlan finally looks up, Merlin is watching him carefully. The silence goes on for a beat longer. That’s when Merlin uncovers a new set of files, setting them on the desk.

There’s approximately seven. Which likely means that’s the pile Merlin spent most of his time and research on. Because it’s what he prefered.

Oddly enough, Quinlan has no negative feelings about that. It’s simply the way it is.

He reaches a hand to drag the whole stack towards him, but Merlin stops him halfway.

Quinlan raises an eyebrow.

“Education is a very important investment for your future. You have to know if it’s the right fit.”

“...Yes. I gathered, _Father_ ,” Quinlan slowly responds, watching Merlin’s badly hidden grimace at the term.

“It’s not only about the prestige, the quality of the academics, the atmosphere--It’s how you would _feel_ being in that environment overall. It needs to be a place where you can not only thrive in, but _evolve_ ,” Merlin says meaningfully. Quinlan can only stare. Why can’t people just say what they need to say?

It literally takes five long seconds of Merlin struggling to find the words before he stands from behind the desk, pulling at his jumper in what appears to be a self-comforting gesture. “Quinlan, I hate to ask this of you. But...for _efficiency’s_ sake, I would like to administer a test to determine--”

“Oh.” Quinlan sighs in relief when it finally _clicks_ for him. “Alright.”

Merlin stops to stare at him. “Really?”

Quinlan huffs. “You could have just said so--I was wondering when you were going to bring it up. If _ever_.”

Merlin looks rather relieved as he unlocks a drawer in his desk and takes out what appears to be a very slim metal case. “I was simply under the impression that you were under a certain ideology.”

“What ideology?” Quinlan frowns as he pulls up his long sleeves.

“That you were to hide yourself, for the sake of conformi--” Merlin stops himself as he walks around the desk, looking rather dumbfounded.

“What?” Quinlan asks, holding out his arms. “Left or right?”

Merlin blinks and blinks, hand absently unlatching the corners of the case. “What do you mean?”

Starting to get annoyed, Quinlan holds his arms out in emphasis. “Which arm? You’ll be using a tourniquet, yes?” He’s starting to get nervous and he feels stupid. “You should. To make it easier. It’s your first time with me, therefore--” The expression of muted horror dawning on Merlin’s face stops Quinlan’s rambling. “What?”

“...Quinlan,” Merlin says, slow and even. “What did you think I meant when I said ‘test’?”

His brows furrow, and he feels like he’s in trouble and he doesn’t understand. “Well--” He stutters. “The _test_.”

“What test?”

“The bloody _test_ ,” Quinlan burst out in frustration. “The one that mother always does--Once, twice a month?” Quinlan waves at the metal case that Merlin’s opening, expecting to see the usual equipment. But to his own surprise, it only contains papers, carefully wrapped in plastic.

Perplexed, Quinlan stares up at Merlin.

Merlin, who’s staring back at him with that floored expression, a mixture of horrified dismay.

“Christ,” Merlin finally whispers, but he seems unable to say anything more, no matter how much he tries.

And Quinlan doesn’t know what to do.

His stomach is curdling with _dread_ and he doesn’t know what he's done wrong.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rip


	4. 2000 - 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> development....or is it  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao i suck at summaries don't listen to me
> 
> 6.9K IM SORRY i'll do my best to keep the future chapters much shorter
> 
> links for visualisation

 

“What else did she do?” Merlin asks.

Quinlan keeps his mouth shut. He doesn't like the underlying tone in Merlin’s voice. It’s almost as if his mother is being accused of something.

It's a sentiment he does not appreciate.

Merlin purses his lips, but he seemingly regains his composure. “I’m simply asking _because_ ,” He begins reasonably, “I wish to know how to do this properly.”

Dubious, Quinlan stares at him for a few seconds. Merlin uncharacteristically shrugs, leaning back against his desk, waiting.

“What do you need to know, exactly?” Quinlan ventures. He assumed that Merlin would already know. Perhaps mother didn’t leave him accurate instructions. At least ones Merlin is capable of understanding.

“Everything,” Merlin clarifies. "Procedures, objectives."

“Well, alright,” Quinlan concedes, feeling a small surge of power at the thought of giving instructions despite his initial reluctance. “Before the blood draw, usually I’m asked to fast for up to nine hours. Sometimes it’s thirteen, but that’s approximately once every two, three months,” He explains, waving it off. “Urine and hair samples are also collected, follicle intact and all.” He tries to remember anything else. “Oh! Saliva as well, along with the usual vitals.”

The way Merlin is looking at him is simply disconcerting.

Quinlan frowns. “Questions?”

“What happens after that?”

“Depends.” Quinlan shrugs. “Mother would process it. Takes a while. Up to a week, almost.”

“Where would your mother process this?”

“The hospital, I assume. She works there part-time as an orderly. Volunteers in her spare time, out of town, even,” Quinlan can’t help but add eagerly, because there’s no reason Merlin should have his lips thin like he’s displeased. Her actions are charitable.

Were.

Were charitable.

“Has she ever told you what it’s for?” Merlin asks, eyes cast down as he shuffles through the boarding school files.

Quinlan’s brows furrow. “It doesn’t need to be explained--Like eating for sustenance. It’s obvious, isn’t it? It’s for health monitoring.” Merlin’s eyes are still cast down, but he’s stopped the shuffling. Quinlan feels the need to add, “What any good mother would do.”

It’s unbearably silent for a moment and the muscle on Merlin’s jaw ticks. “I see.” He moves the pile of folders behind him on the desk. “Do you expect me to do the same?”

It feels like a trick question. Quinlan is far from needy. He doesn’t need to be constantly checked on. Mother’s check ups were simply that. Sometimes she’d change his diet, sometimes she’d revert it for the next cycle of testing. She never said there was anything to be worried about, so he’s fine.

“No,” He finally answers, “As I said, you’re a busy man.” Quinlan holds his hand out, pointedly raising his eyebrow at the boarding school files partly hidden behind Merlin.

Merlin doesn’t move.  

“...I can’t monitor you in boarding school.”

 

>> 

 

After much deliberation, Quinlan settles on Lycée Français Charles De Gaulle de Londres. Despite all his wishes, he can’t help feel gratified to see this was an option. However, Quinlan might end up outside his comfort zone with those who will be around him. They would likely be children of important people from around the world. Politicians and elites who want their offspring to grow up fluent and well-versed in another culture.

He can’t help but think of what personalities their psychology would result in. They would likely clash with his. More so than the usual.

The Lycée is also in the centre of London.

“How does the transportation system work here?” He asks Merlin over breakfast.

“No,” Is what Merlin says.

Quinlan huffs. “What, will you be driving me to school every morning?”

Merlin grumbles under his breath, chugging down his coffee and reading over documents.

Raising an eyebrow, Quinlan asks him something else. “And what about _after_ school? Will I be picked up three, four hours after it ends?”

“...I could get you a chauffeur,” Merlin finally responds.

“Ugh,” Quinlan groans, rolling his eyes. “ _Incroyable_.”

“Also, don’t forget--Next week--”

“First test. No eating for thirteen hours--”

“That’s excessive, nine is fine.”

Quinlan frowns. “Okay.”

Merlin watches him for a moment. “...If you wish to do thirteen, then do so.”

Perking up, Quinlan nods. “Good. She always said that results were more accurate that way.”

Averting his eyes, Merlin clears his throat. “This will be only done once if the results are found satisfactory.”

“...Oh.”

Merlin grabs a croissant and puts it on Quinlan’s plate. “What’s more important are the _assessments_.”

Quinlan sighs, scrunching his nose. “Must I?”

“I want you to have the option, in case you ever change your mind. If you feel the need to blend in despite your abilities, that is your prerogative,” Merlin tells him. “When--Or if--you finally realise that such things are senseless, and wish to take your rightful place in the level you deserve to be in, you will have that opportunity.”

The words stay with Quinlan as he tries to sleep that night. Mother had always warned him. Being too smart wasn’t the problem, it’s people _knowing_ you’re smart and capable.

While Quinlan never thought of himself as smart, she had always said otherwise. He simply wants to know things; There’s more knowledge out there he hasn’t even thought about.

How can he have access to all that if he stays behind, likely learning about things he already knows about?

 

>> 

 

On the day of the test, Merlin comes home early. He’s brought two large metal cases, reminiscent of the medical kit hidden under the sink in the bathroom.

Quinlan is antsy, but that’s simply from not having eaten in the last seventeen hours. Usually he’d have better control, but it’s been a while.

“Office?” Quinlan asks.

Merlin sets one case onto the kitchen counter and opens it, taking out gloves to wear and two plastic containers in separate packets, one smaller than the other. “If you could, please, do these first?”

Thank goodness. Quinlan’s been holding it in for _hours_. He tries not to appear too eager as he goes to the bathroom. He spits into the small tube first, filling it up to the required line. After he’s done with his urine sample, he washes his hands and finds Merlin setting up in the office. The open cases on the desk are angled away from Quinlan, so he can’t see what’s in it.

It really isn’t until he sits down on the chair and has his vitals taken that he realises something. “That jumper fits you.”

“Oh?” Merlin doesn’t even spare him a look as he writes down the results. “Thank you.”

Quinlan huffs. The jumper fits Merlin not only in size, but in colour as well. It’s dark, yes, but warmly so. It’s more brown than black, and the large patches over his shoulders are even lighter. Even though it’s a jumper, there’s something about it that just _fits_ Merlin, the style of sophistication that matches...well, whatever he does for a living.

Quinlan tilts his head in curiosity as he tries to think about why he feels the need to investigate further. It’s derailed by Merlin stopping and stepping back from the preparations just to stare at him.

Quinlan stares back.

“What does she usually do?” Merlin asks. “Straight to the blood draw?”

Unfortunately, Quinlan has to be honest for the sake of science. He tries not to grimace. “Hair first.”

Merlin back to one of the cases and pulls out sterile tweezers still inside its packet. It’s odd how awkward Quinlan feels when Merlin hesitantly comes closer to pat at his head before finding a strand of hair to pluck.

Cringing is something he tries to tamp down. When Merlin deposits the hair into a clear plastic bag and makes a move to close it, Quinlan can’t help but correct him. “At least three is collected.”

Displeasure briefly flits through Merlin’s expression and Quinlan huffs. It’s hardly _his_ fault the man doesn’t know the procedures, he’s simply informing him. “Swab next.”

After he finishes the hair collection, Merlin opens a singular packet of medical swab. The discomfort on his face is tainted with determination when Quinlan opens his mouth for the swab.

“Would you still prefer a tourniquet?” Merlin murmurs after.

“I’m not certain of your vein finding skills, so I would prefer it, yes.”

“Which arm?”

“She was impartial,” Quinlan tells him. “I learned to be fully ambidextrous.”

Merlin purses his lips. “What do you prefer?”

Quinlan holds his right arm out. “Sometimes she does the back of the hand but--” He tries not to feel like he’s betrayed her when he admits it. “I don’t like that. Especially not  _inbetween_ the fingers, for that matter. So...inner forearm, if you could, please and thank you.”

It’s only after Merlin applies the tourniquet that Quinlan senses some hesitation. He frowns and points out to Merlin one of the veins to make it easier for him. “I actually think there’s a scar here.”

“...Yes. Yes, there is.”

“Just a pinprick,” Quinlan feels the need to say. He can feel Merlin watching him carefully as the man pulls out another packet of equipment, but it’s hardly anything to react to.

“Hold this for a moment.” Through the clear plastic, Quinlan can see the tube that the capped needle is connected to. There’s another capped needle on the other end, presumably to be directly connected to the vial.

“Huh. Interesting.”

“What is?” Merlin murmurs as he looks through one of the metal cases again.

“She mostly used syringes. Had to insert another for the next vials,” Quinlan absently remarks. The small contraption looks like a butterfly, almost.

Merlin freezes. “How many vials are usually involved in these tests?”

“Mmm...depends on what she’s testing for. Minimum of three, but it sometimes goes up to eight.”

The weight of Merlin’s stare is unavoidable, and Quinlan finally meets his eyes in question. Merlin holds his gaze for a brief second before promptly looking away.

“Do you know which ones--” Merlin holds up a few vials in their packets. They all have a different cap colour. “Anything seem familiar?”

“As I’ve said, it depends. However, green and purple is a constant.”

“We’ll do three,” Merlin announces. “Are you amenable to that?”

Quinlan tries not to scowl. He’s fasted for more than thirteen hours like he usually does for the bigger tests. To have made all that effort and have it minimised to three vials is an insufferable concept. “I’d be amenable if you did the whole set.”

Merlin looks back to whatever’s in the case before staring back at him. “Quinlan, with all due respect, lad, you don't have enough blood for the whole set.”

Trying not to feel offence is futile. “She’s done it to me plenty. Most of those vials require five milligrams. Some are around two or less. All in all, it shouldn't total more than thirty-three milligrams of blood--Which is within the guidelines for a single draw for a person of my weight.”

Appearing rather grim, Merlin pulls out more vials in packets. He gives them all to Quinlan to unpack while taking the needle tube and setting up a vial.

Merlin briefly checks the state of Quinlan’s right arm before uncapping the main needle.

Quinlan can sense him carefully watching his expression before inserting the needle. The needle goes in like many other times before. Granted, it’s been a _while_.

As Quinlan concentrates on the _when_ aspect, he barely notices the tourniquet coming off. He gets lost in his own head, wondering when the last test was.

His brain latches on to the date. The seventh of January.  Nothing special really happened. Mother was already sick by that time, but she still had the strength to volunteer at the hospital one last time. After the test, that is.

He thinks he had tomato soup for a late lunch. He huffs, remembering the taste. Too sour.

Quinlan absently hands Merlin the next vial.

The seventh of January-- _What else, what else_.

Mother had come home with dinner she’d bought from a local restaurant.  A rare happenstance. It had meat in it.

There really isn't any more than that other than the daily routine.  The seventh of January. Nothing special.

That’s the thing about Quinlan--When he looks at a calendar during a particular day or simply acknowledge or affirm to himself what date it is, there’s a good chance he’ll remember what happened.

It’s not quite an eidetic memory. God knows mother had him assessed for that. It was one of the few times Quinlan had seen disappointment on her face.

He attempts to blink away the memory. It only serves to make him lightheaded.

“Quinlan?”

Quinlan blindly palms for more vials to hand over, but he ultimately looks down to find that there are none left. The needle is also gone, and in its place is a sticking plaster.

“Oh.” He frowns, scanning the area before meeting Merlin’s questioning gaze. “Are we done? May I eat now?”

Merlin has his lips pressed together as he nods.

Quinlan finds himself clutching the armrest as he stands, taking a brief second to will away the strange vertigo. Merlin’s hands stop him.

“Let me take a set of post-test vitals.”

Huffing, Quinlan relents and stays put for another minute.

When he’s about to leave, Merlin clears his throat, fishing through one of his pockets and holding out something to him. Quinlan takes it on automatic, scrunching his nose at the sight of it.

“What’s this?”

Merlin stares at him, stunned. “It’s--”

“Candy, yes, I know. What for?” He clarifies.

“Well...for being good,” Merlin explains, discomfort clear in his body language.

Quinlan purses his lips. “People shouldn’t be decent because they expect some sort of reward. They should be decent because they simply should be, regardless.” He watches his own hand close around the candy. “But--Thank you.”

“Well,” Merlin huffs, “If everyone was like you, lad, the world would be a much different place.”

 

>> 

 

It’s been a week and a half of rarely seeing Merlin in the house and making do with reading the books in his room. Quinlan tries not to be too eager and ask about his results whenever he _does_ see Merlin.

However, he’s gotten the impression that the man tries to avoid his eyes at any cost during these encounters. He hopes he’s wrong.

“Has anybody told you that you look young for your age?” Merlin asks him one time.

Nose scrunching, Quinlan squints his eyes. “Unfortunately, yes. Despite my height. I was the second tallest in my year. Missed out by an inch.”

Merlin nods and keeps his silence before finally speaking. “Your results came back.”

“And?”

“Congratulations, you’re in good health.”

Quinlan didn’t know what else he was expecting, really, but-- “And? Any recommendations? Adjustments?”

Merlin watches him carefully. “How do you feel?”

Bewildered and frustrated, Quinlan throws out his hands. “I don’t know. I’m fine.”

“Then you’re fine,” Merlin tells him simply.

It feels as if he’s being lied to, but maybe Quinlan needs to start trusting people who aren’t his mother.

 

>> 

 

It’s another rare moment of catching Merlin at home when Quinlan sees him carrying the familiar plastic bag full of hideous jumpers. Considering Merlin’s been gathering all the rubbish in the house for the past few minutes, he can only assume one thing.

“Are you throwing those out?”

“Mmm. It’s bin day tomorrow.”

While Quinlan would suggest donating it, he doesn’t say a word. What he does do is wait until Merlin goes to work and searches for the bag among the pile of rubbish. They’re mostly full of hideous jumpers, yes, but they’re still clothes that can be used to keep warm. Not that Quinlan would ever wear them outside--If he _ever_ gets the chance to be outside.

These could be useful someday.

 

>> 

 

There comes a point in time where books aren’t enough. Quinlan’s hands are _twitching_ , and half the time he doesn’t even realise it.

Watching the television to learn about the culture and catalogue different accents from all over the United Kingdom is something he’s done plenty to pass the time. The magnetic map of London has long been completed. He wants to leave and take a walk, but out of the foolish need for courtesy, he tries to wait until he catches Merlin in the house to ask.

“May I go out for a stroll?”

“...Isn’t the [front garden](http://i.imgur.com/jZHzNTp.jpg?1) sufficient?” Merlin genuinely seems perplexed.

This might be the type of rubbish adult behaviour that drives children to resort to tantrums. Quinlan resists.

 

>> 

 

The resentment returns, bit by bit, until it becomes something he actively needs to suppress.

 

>> 

 

“I’m going to go mental if I keep doing nothing but wait for Autumn,” Quinlan says to the wall of his room in practice. “I’m going to go m--”

He blinks, taking in the lack of light.

Quinlan curses, looking around his room. He doesn’t have a calendar, it suddenly occurs to him. What day is it?

His breaths come in a much quicker pace than the last and he does his best to settle.

He fails.

Speeding down the stairs, it’s a wonder how he doesn’t fall altogether and die an imminent death but he’s desperately clawing at the front door before it finally opens. He runs to the cold air outside to find Merlin having just entered the gate.

They both stop, stunned at each other.

The gate is still open.

Quinlan doesn’t know what the bloody hell he’s doing, but his heart rate is through the roof and suddenly he’s _running_. He’s almost out the gate when there’s a strong arm around his waist, pulling him back and _up_.

“Non-- _Non!_ ” He yells, frantic. “Arrêtez! Lâchez-moi, je veux partir d’ici! Vous n’avez pas le droit, y a rien á faire ici--” Merlin’s free hand is covering his mouth, but Quinlan only struggles harder, legs kicking the air. The sight of the small primary gate across the narrow passageway is getting further from him and Quinlan panics even more.

Merlin’s telling him to calm down, but he’s too far gone. He wants to leave.

He wants to leave.

“I’m sorry.” Merlin’s words barely register to him before he feels the quick sting on his neck.

 

>> 

 

The disorientation is debilitating. Even such a simple thing like staring into the dark is extremely perplexing.

Closing his eyes, he risks turning himself to the side and the mere action prompts a nauseating rush to the head. He absently realises that he’s in his bed, well covered under the duvet, but he’s more concentrated on the way his senses cross over each other. The metallic ring that seemingly permeates all around eventually condenses to a single frequency.

Footsteps, out in the hallway. Pacing, more like.

Quinlan opens his eyes in narrow slits, adjusting to the darkness.

“...I can’t--” The murmur reaches Quinlan’s hearing. “I’ve made a terrible mistake, I don’t know what the bloody fuck I’m doing--”

Quinlan’s brows furrow once he realises that Excalibur’s on the bedside table within his line of sight. He doesn’t remember having put him there.

Actually, he doesn’t remember anything at all.

Reaching for Excalibur is a task in and of itself. His muscles are weak and when he shifts his legs to test them, he realises too late that he’s falling off the bed.

He grunts. The shock triggers a deeper nausea. As he palms around he thinks he hits the rubbish bin--which somehow has a plastic bag lining it; it didn't have that before--and he pulls it towards him just in time to _heave_.

The door bursts open, the dim light from the hallway piercing in, blinding.

“Shit---Shit, shit, shit--” Merlin keeps on cursing nonstop. His hands awkwardly hover as Quinlan vomits and vomits.

Vomits what, Quinlan doesn’t know, he doesn’t even remember having eaten.

When his body finally manages to calm down enough to let him breathe and speak, he slurs at Merlin, “What did I do? What happened?”

“Vitals.” The voice isn’t Merlin’s.

There’s a shadow blocking the light on the floor, and his eyes travel to find a set of shiny shoes by the doorway. As Merlin opens the all too familiar metal case beside him, Quinlan's shame worsens when he realises that there isn’t only one person who gets to see him like this, there’s _two_. There isn’t any way to scowl with dignity but Quinlan tries when he glares up at Galahad. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Helping your father brush up on his medical training. It was about time.”

“Shut your mouth,” Merlin snaps. Quinlan cringes at the sensory overload, along with the _grip_ of the sphygmomanometer. “Shit. His blood pressure--”

“Stop it,” Galahad calmly orders, slowly stepping in the room. “Calm down, check his temperature. Give me that.”

Quinlan can only grumble and be pliant to whatever they’re doing. He’d fight back if he could. The prodding of the ear thermometer makes him click his tongue in dissatisfaction.

He hisses out a curse when Galahad wields a small torch to beam at his eyes.

“Might want to check his blood work,” Galahad suggests casually.

Merlin stops. “Is he strong and stable enough for a draw?”

“I’m here, you know,” Quinlan reminds them, mildly annoyed. “I don’t know how accurate it would be, I don’t know whether I ate during the last few hours.”

“Are you sure?” Merlin asks him seriously. The guilt and worry on his face is something to marvel about. It’s not like it’s his fault Quinlan’s body is failing him at the moment.

“Just do it.”

As Merlin takes the necessary equipment out of the case, Quinlan gets as comfortable as he can on his place on the floor and leans back against the side of his bed.

He doesn’t even realise it when Merlin’s sterilised and inserted the needle into his arm until Merlin’s promising him, “Just a single vial, alright?”

Quinlan frowns. “Is that enough? Do three.”

Galahad huffs, fingers on Quinlan’s free forearm, eyes locked onto his watch. It dawns on him that his pulse rate is being checked. Despite it all--the annoyance, the frustration, the nuisance--he can’t help but feel...cared for. It’s something his mother would do, just with less hassle.

“Your father will be giving you something to eat right after to fill your stomach,” Galahad says, raising an eyebrow at Merlin who’s finishing up with the third vial.

“Right,” Merlin utters, getting away with a harried air to his steps.

“Tsk,” Galahad clicks his tongue, going over the shoddy attempt of Merlin’s first aid due to his haste. “Do forgive him. He’s trying, I’m sure.”

There’s something about his movements. Clean, calm, _professional_. “Why does a tailor know how to do this?”

“This tailor used to be in the service,” Galahad answers easily, rolling down Quinlan’s sleeve after his clean-up. He moves to the other arm to do the same, but he pauses. Quinlan follows his line of sight to one of the needle scars. For some reason, he feels like he should be _embarrassed_ \--which is odd. But thankfully he’s too tired.

Galahad blinks before continuing to roll down Quinlan’s sleeve.

“Can I sleep now?” Quinlan can’t help but ask. He internally curses himself at hearing how childish it sounds.

The quick smile that Galahad gives him is proprietary. “After you eat.”

Just in time, Merlin comes in with a bowl of soup. “Can I turn on the light?

Quinlan bares his teeth. “ _No_.”

They watch him struggle to eat the chicken noodle soup, but Quinlan notices the increasing frequency of Galahad’s looks to Merlin.

“You know, you can leave,” Quinlan tells them. “I’m simply going to go back to sleep after this.”

Merlin appears uncomfortable despite the escape that Quinlan’s given him. “Are you sure?”

Quinlan only narrows his eyes in reply. Merlin takes the bin liner full of vomit and replaces that before making to leave.

“Wait,” Quinlan stops him, handing over the unfinished bowl of soup. “I’ll eat again after I wake up.”

They both wait by the door to watch him settle on the bed and hide under the covers before moving out.

Trying to get used to this horizontal position takes longer than it should. One would think that having his eyes closed would help with the nausea.

Unfortunately, that metallic ring returns, and he knows there’s no hope. His senses have gone haywire again.

“...Something you’d like to tell me?” Galahad lowly murmurs from outside the hall. Quinlan would groan if he could. He wants complete silence and he wants to be unconscious for at least six straight hours.

“I need to get the blood results immediately so--”

“Do what you need to. I can watch over him,” Galahad talks over Merlin. “I meant the mark on his arms.”

Annoyed, Quinlan blindly grabs a pillow and covers his head.

Blessed silence for a few seconds. Until Merlin exhales, clearly frustrated. _Tsk_. Quinlan doesn’t like hearing people breathing from another room, it’s always been something that makes him cringe.

“How was I supposed to _know_ what she’s _done_?” Merlin demands lowly, frustration seeping in. “And how am I supposed to tell him when it’s _all_ he’s ever known? The timeline is wrong, he’s far younger than he should be, his fucking _telomeres_ are--Christ--I need to get this processed and--Thank you.” The last words sound forced through gritted teeth, but genuine nonetheless.

“Of course,” Galahad responds all too airily. “I was bored anyway. At least we now know we _really_ need different calibrations for people of smaller size--”

“Fuck you, I detached it immediately within five seconds.”

Quinlan rejoices at the familiar drowsiness taking over his body.

“I’m just happy you didn't let me shoot him the first time," He thinks he hears Galahad say. Which is odd, so he’s probably hallucinating at this point. That tends to happen before he starts to dream. “I’m certain you’d have had me six feet under if this was the result.“

 

>> 

 

The next few days, Quinlan stays in his room for as long as he can. The first time he tries to leave for food, he finds an insulated cool bag right outside his door.

Inside are containers mostly full of vegetables. There’s a bit of meat on the side, which Quinlan narrows his eyes at and eats out of spite.

Merlin probably didn’t think he’d eat it. Challenge accepted.

When he returns it outside, he finds it refilled by the next meal time.

There’s no hint of Galahad ever having been here and the whole situation was something he could’ve passed on as a fever dream.

The first time he’s well enough to brave going downstairs, he keeps his eyes level and doesn’t give in to staring at the glass stairs underneath him.

Surprisingly enough, Merlin is by the dining table. The whole surface of it covered with files. He doesn’t look like he’s had much sleep.

Quinlan frowns at him.

“Are those work sensitive files or can sit there?” He feels the need to ask.

Merlin stares. “Why would you ask that?”

Shrugging, Quinlan moves towards the kitchen. “Mother was like that sometimes. I don’t mind eating by the counter. Standing is better than sitting, she used to say. People get complacent sitting.”

The few beats of silence makes Quinlan curious enough to look up. Merlin’s expression is an interesting one. But then again, stoicism has the tendency to look like heavy displeasure. Or guilt.

It depends on the person, really.

“Quinlan Ambrosius Aurélian,” Merlin slowly says, testing.

There’s something genuinely uncomfortable about Merlin saying his full name, something that makes him want to squirm. It all just boils down to being annoying. “What?”

“Your name. I know it’s a long while until Autumn, but I want to have it all sorted. I’m preparing your documents for school and registration,” Merlin explains. “I’m simply wondering if there’s any changes you want made.”

It’s tempting to want to cut out ‘Ambrosius’--but his mother chose it, so why would Quinlan ever want to change it?

In reply, he only shrugs, non-committal.

“Age eleven?”

Quinlan looks at Merlin, perplexed. “Why is that in question format?”

Merlin averts his gaze back down to his files. It isn’t until Quinlan’s halfway through finishing his salad that he realises something.

Quinlan clears his throat, attempting to be casual. “Do you even have a last name?”

The silence is tense for a moment. “...Of course I do.”

“Erm...well, that’s--”

“It’s not necessary--”

“Oh good,” Quinlan sighs, nodding.

“Right. It’s smarter that way.”

“Yes. We’re all about being smart.”

“Speaking of which,” Merlin begins all too conveniently, “Have you decided your entry point?”

It’s tempting to play stupid, but that simply wastes both of their time. “I’ve thought about it. I’d like to try blending in for a bit. If I can’t stand 6ème, if there’s nothing new to learn, I’ll take the assessments.”

Merlin seems to need a few seconds to process that. Eventually, he nods. It doesn’t last long. “Do understand that the process of switching levels halfway might take longer than it should. It would be better if you take it first, simply to gauge the situation.”

It feels like a compromise. “Alright.”

Quinlan’s washing the dishes when it occurs to him. “Wait. It’s past lunch time--Aren’t you meant to be at work?”

“...I’m off for the next three days,” Merlin murmurs absently.

Oh.

Well--That’s...nice.

“Any other business you’d like to get out of the way?” Quinlan checks, casual.

“Yes, actually.”

Drying his hands, Quinlan turns and waits for Merlin to go on. Sometimes the Merlin gets so lost in his work that Quinlan genuinely worries he forgot that he was halfway through a sentence.

“...Do you feel well enough for a walk in the park?”

 

>> 

 

If Quinlan gets lost in Hampstead Heath Park, he muses he could pretend to be back at the commune. He resists the urge to lull Merlin to a false sense of security just to disappear.

But Merlin’s trying. Courtesy requires him to pay the same respect.

“I apologise, by the way,” Quinlan begins.

“What for?”

Stalling, Quinlan mumbles under his breath. “I don’t know why I was sick like that. It’s embarrassing. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, lad,” Merlin oddly sounds genuine in his assurance.

“My body usually doesn’t betray me like that,” Quinlan insists, earnest.

“I’m sure it doesn’t.”

Silence overtakes them again. Quinlan is content to stare at encompassing green of the open space, breathing it in. It’s not quite like home, but it’s better than being stuck inside. He can pretend.

“As I’ve said, it’s going to be a while until Autumn,” Merlin says.

“Mmm, and?”

“Other than books, what else do you enjoy?”

Quinlan squints at the distance. Is it normal to be this suspicious? He really doesn’t know. There was always mother to talk to and share his suspicions with. “I enjoy…music.”

“Really?” There’s genuine surprise there, bordering on offensive from Quinlan’s point of view.

“We didn’t have a piano at the cottage, obviously, but there was one at school. A violin, too. There was a harp in church. The only reason I was there, to be honest. I was one of the few children allowed to play it.” He thinks the pride in his tone is too obvious and he tries to dial it down. “Maurice had an accordion. He--”

“Alright, we can soundproof the room next to yours and have it be your activity room.”

Quinlan almost trips, dubious of what he’s just heard. “What?”

“I don’t want you to be bored.” When Quinlan looks at him, the man’s staring straight ahead, hands in his pockets. “Cooped up for that long, even with books, sometimes it might feel like...there’s nothing to do.”

There’s a _rush_ at the thought of the things Quinlan could ask for to fight boredom. Things he can tinker with, a kind of workshop like him and mother had in the basement, technical materials, even _chemicals_ \--Quinlan attempts to calm himself down. “Well, that’s nice of you.”

“Anything else?”

Despite all the things he wants to say, Quinlan shakes his head, modest. “Not really.”

Merlin ultimately stops in his walk, making Quinlan follow in turn. Merlin’s fishing something out of his pocket and holding it out.

Quinlan doesn’t know why Merlin’s handing him what appears to be a mobile phone. “What do you want me to do with it?”

“It’s yours.”

At the words, he finds himself mechanically taking the [phone](http://i.imgur.com/q74jhXy.jpg). It’s solid in his hand, slightly hefty in weight. The design reminds him of an ancient soldier with a helmet on. “Why?”

“If there’s an emergency, if you need something, I want you to be able to contact me. It was senseless of me not to have done this beforehand.”

Well, that’s true. Quinlan doesn't know how to say that without sounding ungracious. “Alright.”

“I’d ask you if you need the manual booklet but…” Merlin trails off, shrugging. In that moment, it’s tempting to keep up a charade. To disagree and tell him otherwise.

 _Faire l’âne pour avoir du son_ , a voice reminiscent of his mother’s says. However, in this case, it seems that Merlin already has an idea of Quinlan’s easy comprehension of things. An idea, a suspicion. Nothing concrete. Quinlan can still play stupid whenever he chooses. Now is not one of those times.

“I’m sure I’ll figure it out eventually.”

Later on in their stroll, Merlin asks a question seemingly from nowhere.

“Have you been introduced to a computer?”

It takes _everything_ in Quinlan’s power not to give anything away.

“We had a few lessons in school.”

It’s not exactly a lie. It’s simply that Mother had taught him much _more_.

Merlin hums. “Perhaps I can teach you a few things.”

_Breathe steady, breathe steady._

“Perhaps,” Quinlan replies, hiding the surge of excitement.

 

>> 

 

“It’s an older model, but rugged and dependable,” Merlin tells him.

Quinlan’s hand hovers over the laptop on his desk. A quick glance at Merlin makes him realise that the man’s waiting for a concrete reaction. Some sort of approval.

“Thank you, Merlin.”

The man clears his throat. “Well, as I said, it’s an older model, but it should have decent specs--486DX2 processor, 60 MHZ single-core, 8 MB RAM, 1 gigabyte HDD,” Merlin rambles on, “Not that might mean anything to you…” He seems to realise.

Quinlan doesn't tell him that he and mother had a [Micro Mainframe 9000](http://i.imgur.com/BtECDEx.jpg) which was released around nineteen eighty-one. A nineteen ninety-five IBM [Thinkpad](http://i.imgur.com/vIx4YdD.jpg) is a luxury. Even with its massive ten-inch screen, It’s compact. It’s only as thick as the length of Quinlan’s thumb. Most of all, it has a charming feature with its spring-loaded butterfly keyboard that [snaps](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=spLs7pZlrrc) into place once the device is opened, larger than the overall width of the whole laptop itself.

His fingers _tingle_ at the possibility. With this, Quinlan couldn't possibly be bored again. He simply must get used to this system and its intricacies before he can do some proper programming. Suddenly, he remembers the floppy disks he has taken from the cottage, still deep in his rucksack under his bed.

Just for the sake of it, Quinlan allows some of his excitement to show before turning to Merlin. “Does it have Minesweeper?”

 

>> 

 

The time for the assessments dawns on Quinlan, and the struggle to be honest versus the conditioned behaviour to get a few things wrong for the sake of legitimate normalcy continues.

“Who else sees the immediate results?" He questions Merlin.

“The examiner.”

“And who is the examiner?”

Merlin finally stops in his writing to look at him. “A professional trusted with the privacy of your result.”

“Do they really keep to their promise of privacy?” Quinlan ventures cautiously. “Even if the marks are...on the higher side?”

Being observed is one of the things he hates most, it’s right up there with being patronised, but Quinlan manages to keep expression neutral, mirroring Merlin’s.

“What are you afraid of?”

Quinlan struggles to force the words out. “I don’t want to be on a list.”

“Then I will check your answers and results. It can be done.”

“What if I don’t want you to know?” Quinlan asks, keeping down the shame.

“...You’re going to have to learn to trust me, lad,” Merlin tells him, exasperated.

 

>> 

 

The first assessment is timed. It is also unmarked. Therefore, Quinlan doesn’t know what the test is all about. However, it’s similar to the kind of written tests mother used to give him every few years, so he simply goes on answering the ridiculous questions. They’re mostly logic based but it all becomes increasingly annoying.

 

 **Which same three-letter word can be placed in front of the following words to make a new word?**  
  
**_SIGN, DONE, DUCT, FOUND, FIRM, TRACT, DENSE_**

 

Quinlan squints for a long two seconds and double checks his final answer.

 

**If two typists can type two pages in two minutes, how many typists will it take to type 18 pages in six minutes?**

 

Quinlan rolls his eyes, muttering under his breath. His time is being _wasted_.

 

**If you count from 1 to 100, how many 7's will you pass on the way?**

 

Quinlan’s affront is becoming genuinely difficult to squash.

 

**Four years ago, Jane was twice as old as Sam. Four years on from now, Sam will be 3/4 of Jane's age. How old is Jane now?**

 

Quinlan groans. He tries not to be distracted about the things he _could_ be doing instead.

 

**Pear is to apple as potato is to?**

 

 _Excalibur_. Radishes grow underground.

 

**What is the word coiled inside this circle?**

 

 _ ~~Monster~~_ _\--Stronger_. Quinlan frowns, wary of his own stupidity.

 

**What is the following word when it is unscrambled?**

**H C P R A A T E U**

 

 _Parachute_.

 

**Only one other word can be made from all the letters of INSATIABLE. Can you find it?**

 

 _Banalities_. Such as the elementary concepts of this bloody exam.

Admittedly, the questions do become increasingly more difficult. And by difficult he still means _annoying_ to the point of genuine frustration. It’s a wonder how he finishes it all with ten minutes remaining. It’s tempting to double-check all his answers, but he’s been put through enough suffering. He’d rather not.

 

>> 

 

“About your transportation arrangements,” Merlin begins one late night. He does that thing where he doesn’t continue talking, and Quinlan has to wait and calculate the probability between simple absentmindedness, pure consternation, or an oncoming stroke.

“About the transportation arrangements,” Quinlan repeats, hoping to ease him along.

“Well, I _was_ about to hire you a chauffeur but…” Merlin trails off.

“ _But_?” Quinlan obnoxiously parrots, munching on a cantaloupe.

“But lucky for _you_ ,” Merlin says, taking out something from his trouser pocket and setting it on the counter. He doesn't take his hand off it. Hesitation flickers through his expression. “...I don't trust anybody.”

There’s a beat of uncertain silence when he ultimately reveals what looks to be a transport card. Quinlan finds himself reaching for it, but Merlin’s hold doesn't ease up when he tries to turn it for a better look.

“ _However_ ,” Merlin emphasises, staring straight at him. Quinlan raises an eyebrow at the unnecessary dramatics. “I am choosing to trust you.”

The dawning realisation washes over him. The words have a physical consequence, Quinlan can feel their weight on his shoulders. He can't quite name the emotion that makes him want to squirm and recoil. It feels like embarrassment.

He watches his own fingers slowly drawing back, but Merlin takes the card and hands it over.

“I’m trusting you to go where you need to be, and I’m trusting you to be home _safe_ at a reasonable hour.” Merlin is trying to have him meet his eyes, but Quinlan has difficulty holding his gaze for more than a few seconds. “I will do my best to drive you to school and back, but I think we both know my best isn't good enough.”

Quinlan thinks it’s shame. Shame is worse than embarrassment, isn't it? All he can do is nod like he understands.

“Now,” Merlin says, “I’ve enrolled you to an after-school programme within the Lycée. It lasts about two and a half hours after your formal studies have ended for the day. If I’m not there to get you, you can make your way home. All I can ask is you notify me--when you decide to leave, and when you arrive safe at home.”

Quinlan wonders if could be disappointment, but he’s still flushed with something like humiliation and he doesn't understand.

“Do you understand?”

Quinlan nods, finally opening his mouth. “Yes. T--thank you.”

The heat worsens and he feels like a child. He clears his throat. “Will we be going over the routes?”

Merlin looks conflicted as he takes out a pamphlet. “I’ll try to schedule a proper time. For now--” Merlin hesitates. He’s clearly having second thoughts about handing it over to Quinlan, because when he takes it, Merlin just seems like he knows he’s going to regret something.

Either way, as Quinlan roves his eyes over the complicated colourful lines of the London Underground system, he can’t but feel that giddy excitement.

“One question,” Quinlan finds himself negotiating, turning over the items in his hands.

Merlin waits, expectant.

“How did you get this photo of me?” Quinlan holds up the transport card, clearly marked for children of ages eleven to fifteen.

Merlin deflates, looking severely unamused and put out. He mutters under his breath, moving away to his office.

Quinlan snorts at the non-answer. Once Merlin’s out of sight, he finds himself smiling softly.

Perhaps things won’t be so terrible after all.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i mention this fic is dedicated to ben whishaw's genes??
> 
> let me die  
> i know it's uGH, im sorry  
> feedback and drag pls


	5. 20 May 2000 - 19 December 2000

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thirst for knowledge lmao

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> he's just...........never satisfied  
> 5.2k

 

 

 

They find themselves walking out of the house and into the Underground station nearby. It’s another rare occasion; Merlin has the day off. He seems to want to use this opportunity to get Quinlan acquainted with the London Underground, teaching him how to switch lines and get where he needs to be, specifically towards South Kensington.

“Pull up your scarf higher, please,” Merlin asks him politely. Again.

Quinlan scowls from behind his scarf and scratches at the hat he’s been forced to wear. “The weather’s getting warmer, this is unnecessary.”

“SImply prevention. I don’t want you getting sick again, lad.”

They make their way on foot to the Lycée. It’s literally five minutes from the station, right across the road from the massive elegant Natural History Museum. Quinlan’s mind is in overdrive, calculating how much time he might need in the morning.

“I want you to take your time, ask any questions you want to ask,” Merlin says. “I want you to get a feel for the place, decide if this is what you want, if you’re comfortable with it.”

Quinlan has to pull himself out of his concentration to stare at Merlin in confusion. That’s when someone greets them, opening one of the main entrances.

As the woman cheerfully introduces herself, Quinlan instinctively retreats into himself, meek with shoulders slightly hunched. He remains polite, murmuring whatever answer she needs. Merlin gives him a strange look, but Quinlan simply shoots one back right at him, the hypocrite.

It’s not that Merlin’s ever been truly rude or graceless before, cursing at Galahad aside, but the Merlin that interacts with this lady is slightly different than the one Quinlan gets to deal with. He’s more...refined.

It’s a school day, but they get to peek and observe ongoing classes in silence. He wonders if this is a normal request that’s constantly granted by the school. Somehow, he doubts it.

The main thing that Quinlan learns from this tour is that there aren’t any uniforms. He’s long heard of the dramatics of British schooling and their uniforms. It was foolish of him not to think of the fact that he wouldn’t get to wear one because he chose a French school in London of all things.

Not that he was ever extremely _keen_ to wear a uniform, it’s simply that it’s tedious to have to think of what to wear and have other children judge you for it.

Suppose there’s a use for Merlin’s advice about the scarf--Quinlan can hide most of his reactions behind it.

 

 

>> 

 

 

When Quinlan takes the entrance assessments for the Lycée, he can’t help but think of his mother. He can’t help but choose to do what he always does.

Get a few things wrong and blend in.

Be unremarkable.

 

 

>> 

 

 

All in all, Quinlan thinks he’s genuinely making progress in settling in. If it wasn’t for Merlin’s seemingly renewed effort along with his offers of things to kill Quinlan’s boredom, Quinlan probably would have tried to run away.

Of course, Merlin has to go to work. That seems to be his main purpose in life. Far it be for Quinlan to get in the way.

It shouldn’t really come as a surprise that Merlin goes back to his old habits of getting home later and later into the night until he hardly sees him in the normal waking hours of an efficient human being. Quinlan needs to stop being disappointed, because disappointment implies that there was expectation to begin with.

He’s been given shelter, he’s been provided food and clothing, in addition to things that aren’t necessary but nice to have. Most importantly, he’s set to go into a seemingly impressive institution of education.

He shouldn’t ask or even dare yearn for more.

That is a weakness.

 

 

>> 

 

 

One day, Quinlan blearily comes down the stairs and makes his way to the kitchen, belatedly realising the massive addition to the household.

He blinks, turning his head slowly to the white grand piano taking up space in the middle of the room. Particularly over the round glass entryway to the wine cellar.

“Merlin," Quinlan can’t help but say in a tone of disbelief as he seeks him out in the office late at night. “I was under the impression that you were going to buy me a child-piano and a violin to hide me away in the extra room upstairs.”

“Obviously a grand piano wouldn't fit in that room," Merlin replies absently, working on files. Again. “At least not comfortably."

“That’s why I expected a child-piano.”

Merlin raises an eyebrow over a sheet of paper. “Do you _want_ a child-piano?”

“No,” Quinlan admits. That’s beside the point. He squints at him for a few seconds. “Did you just buy a grand piano so I can't sneak into the wine cellar?”

Merlin pulls the paper higher until Quinlan can’t see his expression anymore. “It’s going to take a while to fully soundproof and outfit your activity room with equipment. Just have fun with the bloody piano.”

The chagrin in his mumbling tone elicits a scoff from Quinlan.

 _Incroyable_.

 

 

>> 

 

 

Perhaps a part of Quinlan simply worries that he’ll be immediately forced to dive straight into the intricate public transport system on the first day of school.

Not that he hasn’t studied it. The unfolded pamphlet showing the full underground map is on the wall of his room. He sees it everyday, makes alternate routes for himself.

Still, the tiny doubt is enough to make him nervous until he suppresses it.

“Excalibur,” Quinlan murmurs, turning to frown at his plant. “What would you like me to play on the piano today?”

 

 

>> 

 

 

Over the next weeks, he hears Merlin entering the room next to his. Quinlan considers if the man’s so tired that he’s suddenly sleeping there instead of the master's bedroom all the way at the end of the hall, but that’s a stupid thought. It’s roughly equal in distance.

Sometimes there are sounds reminiscent of construction.

Even though Quinlan thinks it’s safe to sneak in simply because Merlin should be asleep already, the door to the other room ends up being locked.

It’s tempting to offer his help, but every time he thinks he’s about to tell Merlin, he can’t quite say it. What if Merlin thinks that Quinlan’s only doing it to spend some time with him? That’s embarrassing and childish, isn’t it?

He’d rather not offer at all.

 

 

>> 

 

 

English summer is hot. Just when you think it can’t get worse, it proves you wrong. It’s painstaking to the point of near suffocation. Quinlan doesn’t even want to go outside at all, much less for exploration purposes.

Quinlan takes cold showers, which is a fresh experience tainted with nostalgia. Most of his showers in the commune were cold, if not body temperature. Mother said something about it being healthier, but Quinlan’s been so complacent living here with its automatic water and temperature options.

He waters Excalibur out in the back garden and leaves him there for a bit of sun. Quinlan can see him through the glass doors from most vantage points inside the house, so he can bring him back in if it gets too hot. As it is, Quinlan actually turns on the telly for some background noise before he goes to the kitchen to stare at the fridge contents.

It’s a terrible excuse to get cooler air. A part of him feels a tiny bit of guilt at Merlin’s household bills, how ever much that may be, but he tries not to think too much about that.

The man seems to do well enough for himself.

That doesn’t mean Quinlan should take advantage, however. But it’s not as if Quinlan had asked to be taken away to begin with, so it’s Merlin’s fault.

Scowling at his own warring opinions, he prods at the food in the fridge. When certain words in the background news finally register to him, however, he pauses.

“... _And here is President Clinton giving the announcement_ ,” The BBC announcer says before cutting to a clip of the president of the United States. _“Today, the world is joining us, here in the East room, to behold a map of even greater significance. We’re here to celebrate the completion of the first survey of the entire human genome_.”

Quinlan finds himself closing the fridge. He admittedly doesn't know much about it, at least not the same way he’s well versed in other topics. What he does know is that this is what his mother used to mention.

This is what brought a certain shine to her eyes, what excited her, what made her perk up like a child. This is what she was looking forward to.

“... _Without a doubt_ ,” President Clinton says, “ _This is the most important, most wondrous map ever produced by humankind. The moment we are here to witness was brought about through brilliant and painstaking work of scientists all over the world including many men and women here today…_ ”

But she isn’t. She isn’t here.

She didn’t get to see.

The familiar ache reverberates from within. He misses her, and he feels guilty for trying to move on.

 

 

>> 

 

 

Waiting for Merlin to come home distorts Quinlan’s efficient sleeping schedule. But he does it this once.

A little after midnight is a ridiculous time to be playing the piano, but it’s keeping him awake. Besides, there are studies correlating plant growth and music.

By half past two, however, even Excalibur’s looking a bit peaky in his place on top of the piano. Quinlan’s been at this for a while and his fingers are tiring out to the point where he’s making silly mistakes.

“M’sorry,” He mumbles to Excalibur when he catches himself dozing off.

An indeterminable time later, the mere sound of a latch wakes him up immediately, making him perk up and aggressively blink the tiredness away.

Merlin’s expression is bewildered.

“What are my results?” Quinlan asks, not wasting any time.

“...Your results?” Merlin repeats slowly, causing Quinlan to roll his eyes in impatience.

“Assessment,” He provides shortly.

Merlin watches him for a moment. “Are you certain you wish to know?”

Quinlan squints. “Well, I’m asking you, aren’t I?”

“Sometimes knowledge can be a burden,” Merlin says, neutral.

For a brief few moments Quinlan actually considers it. What if he scored lower than he thought he would? The relief he feels at the thought isn’t enough to overwhelm the churn of dread. “Tell me.”

“One thirty-nine,” Merlin answers simply.

Waiting for any more information is futile when Merlin says nothing more. Quinlan blinks, attempting to understand. “Is that a good thing?”

“...Have you ever heard of the term ‘Intelligence-Quotient’?”

The grave tinge to Merlin’s tone makes Quinlan decide. “No. I don't think I want to at the moment.”

He stayed up for nothing.

 

 

>> 

 

 

Autumn looms and it isn’t too long until Quinlan starts his first day. He tries to ignore the irregular spike in his heartrate every few minutes and concentrates on finishing up his clothes.

He’s prepared them the day previous with much deliberation along with his school rucksack, accompanied by thoughts of regret at not choosing other schools with a mandatory uniform policy.

Taking a good look at the map of London and the tube map on his desk, he mentally goes over his route half a dozen times just in case. His mind is a mess with the several priorities and lists he’s constantly checking over.

Imagine his surprise when he finds breakfast downstairs and Merlin already dressed.

Quinlan blinks. He’s certain Merlin came in late last night, so he thought he’d sleep in, or do the usual, which is go to work early regardless.

“Breakfast?” Merlin asks distractedly from the kitchen. “You’ve about thirty minutes before we leave.”

Oh.

“Thank you,” Quinlan says politely after finishing his meal. He makes a move to stand with his dishes and Merlin interrupts.

“Just put them in the dishwasher.”

Quinlan meets his gaze blankly as he moves toward the sink to wash his plate and utensils.

Merlin huffs, rolling his eyes.

 

 

>> 

 

 

The car ride is quiet. Unlike the hour long trip he intended to take through the underground system, it takes about thirty minutes with mildly heavy traffic to get to the school.

Partially because Merlin is impatient. Despite appearances, he’s clearly one for speed and he doesn’t seem to like being stuck surrounded by other cars. Or perhaps, of course, he simply wants to be back at work as soon as possible.

Quinlan wouldn’t want to waste his time any further and makes to leave the car once they’ve stopped.

“Wait,” Merlin says abruptly. Quinlan raises an eyebrow. The discomfort is clear on Merlin’s expression no matter how much he tries to hide it. “Do you have your I.D. card?”

Blinking slow, Quinlan eventually nods.

“Oyster card?” Merlin prompts.

Quinlan refrains from telling him that if he wanted to go over a checklist, he should’ve done it at home _before_ they left. Instead, he nods.

“...Extra cash?”

Quinlan stops, brows furrowing. Why would he need cash? His meals at school are already paid for.

Merlin curses under his breath, palming around for his wallet. “Knew I forgot something,” He mutters, berating himself and taking out a few bank notes to hand over.

Absently, Quinlan takes them, dumbfounded.

“Home keys?”

“Yes.”

There’s a beat of silence and Merlin begins to look even more discomforted. “Well, lad--” He clears his throat, nodding.

“Right,” Quinlan humours him, safely hiding the money away. “Have a nice day at work.”

“Yes, and you--First day and all that--”

“Goodbye.”

 

 

>> 

 

 

Overall, it’s not so bad. Quinlan technically had been here before and he’d gotten a map of the campus which he studied relentlessly, so that wasn’t an issue.

Teachers seem knowledgeable, engaging.

Too engaging, more often than not.

Why do they ask the age-old question of what one did for their holiday?

What is _Quinlan_ supposed to tell them?

He tries not to look displeased as he feels. To be honest, he doesn’t know if that’s better or worse than introductions, where the rest of the people in the room turn their head towards you in combined attention, staring at you, judging the way you speak and dress and making assumptions from it.

It’s hypocrisy, considering how he more or less does the same thing, but it’s in his best interest to know everybody and what they’ve said. He’s new. Everyone here likely knows each other or knew of each other the year before. He has to play catch up.

At least in the social sense.

Academically, however--Quinlan purses his lips. He has to persevere. He has to give it a chance.

After school, he spends his time in the programme that Merlin’s enrolled him in. He has a moment of self-pity because he’s aware of the fact that he’s only here to give Merlin a chance to pick him up.

The programme ends for the day. Quinlan feels silly, waiting outside for another hour and hiding from the staff who are leaving the school. It wouldn’t do any good for them to see him and become ‘concerned’ and start making trouble.

His mobile has no new messages.

Quinlan takes the tube home.

 

 

>> 

 

 

The next day, Quinlan makes an effort to wake earlier than Merlin ever would. He packs his breakfast, eats it on the way to the tube station nearby and settles for the trip.

His mobile buzzes just as he’s in the process of switching lines at King’s Cross.

 

**05 .09. 2000 - PointyHat:**

 

‘ _Where are you?_ ’

 

 

It’s tempting not to reply and send Merlin into a panic. Quinlan’s well settled on the Piccadilly line before he decides against it.

 

 

‘ _On my way to get an education,_ ’ Quinlan replies.

 

 

There’s no more messages for the rest of the day and he’s resigned to go home on his own.

It’ll be his routine, he already knows.

 

 

>> 

 

 

It seems Merlin does as well, because there’s cash left on the counter every school day morning.

 

 

>> 

 

 

The first few weeks are a refresher. While there are a few tidbits of information that Quinlan didn’t know before, he feels stuck in a place he probably shouldn’t be in.

Nevertheless, Quinlan is polite and makes acquaintances. He tries not to raise his hand at all much less grumble under his breath about the easy answers. That would attract attention. He doesn’t want to be befriended so people can get answers from him. That was a mistake he’d learned from a long time ago.

The age range of the students is varied. There are children far younger than him and there are some who even have facial hair starting to grow. During recreation time, some of their paths cross, so one of the things that Quinlan also learns is _cursing_. Lots and lots of it. In both French and English.

Thankfully he doesn’t talk aloud often, so even _he_ doesn’t know how deeply he’s picked up on the habit.

From sports to arts and crafts, there’s plenty of activities to be distracted by, in addition to the school trips to cultural sites and theatres and museums. However, Quinlan’s favourite is _magic_. Or more accurately, its execution. He knows it’s not real, which is why it’s interesting to try to figure out every step of the illusion. He gets so lost in his attempts that he doesn’t want to do any of the busywork that the Lycée calls homework. It’s tedious and it’s boring and he already knows it. He’d rather turn it into origami.

When he gets home, his routine usually ends up with him checking over Excalibur, watering him if needed. He even plays him a piece on the grand piano simply to procrastinate on homework. More often than not, he goes over the programming he was working on under his mother’s supervision--thankfully saved onto a floppy disk--and while he intends to do the homework, the next instance that he’s consciously aware of the time tends to be near his bedtime.

And so he ends up doing his homework on the tube in annoyance and resignation.

It’s rare for him and Merlin to be in the house at the same time, at least when both of them are awake. Although, Merlin knocked on his door once late at night, and Quinlan pretended to be asleep.

The guest-room is still locked so Quinlan wouldn’t put it past Merlin to have forgotten about what he said he’d do about making it an activity room.

Which is fine.

 

 

>> 

 

 

Less than three months in, he gets called to one of his teachers’ office and Quinlan doesn’t know what to do. He only worries whether or not it’ll get back to Merlin.

“Monsieur Bonhomme?” Quinlan tries, knocking on the door. He had convinced himself earlier that he wasn’t nervous, but when he sees his test papers laid out neatly on the man’s desk, it’s difficult not to be.

But Monsieur Bonhomme’s tone is hushed and kind as he assures Quinlan that he’s not in trouble. In fact, he compliments him. Quinlan doesn't know _why_ considering he made sure to get a few things wrong every now and then. Nothing below ninety-one percent, of course.

Apparently, if Monsieur Bonhomme is to be believed, Quinlan’s performance despite the transition to a new school is exemplary.

Which gets Quinlan to thinking.

“Does that mean I don’t have to do the busywork anymore?” He asks, earnest.

“Busywork?”

“Homework, I meant. Sorry.” Quinlan manages to look contrite.

“Doesn’t the homework help with your performance?” Monsieur Bonhomme prompts. “It’s an object to get you critically thinking about the day’s lecture, to let it absorb in your mind on your own.”

Quinlan shifts in his seat, trying to decide. “What if I tell you that it’s an afterthought I’m resigned to do on my way to school in the morning for the sake of points?”

Monsieur Bonhomme stares at him in silence.

Feeling like he’s misstepped, Quinlan hastily attempts to remedy the situation. “I’ll still take the tests of course, it won’t be an issue--It’s simply that there are better things to do with my time.”

“...Like what?” Monsieur Bonhomme asks slowly.

 _Like magic_ , He almost says, before realising how childish that sounds. Annoyed at his own dejection, he huffs.

Monsieur Bonhomme tilts his head. “Do you genuinely believe that you’ll do well on your tests still without doing the homework?”

“Yes,” Quinlan answers.

 

 

>> 

 

 

Miraculously, Quinlan is given a chance. It feels perilous.

But he’s tired of wasting his time on frivolous things. If he wants that to stop, he has to take the _risk_.

He’s not certain what Monsieur Bonhomme has over the others to go along with the request, but the teachers only give him a sullen look when he turns in the worksheets and papers with his name on them and a written out analysis of some similar subject he read at home. He didn’t want to catch other students’ suspicions upon seeing that he simply turned in a blank paper with his name on it.

It’s not that Quinlan can complain at the packets of exams he has to take from each of his teachers. He brought this upon himself. But he’ll prove them wrong if he has to.

Monsieur Bonhomme huffs and Quinlan looks up from his furious scribbling to stare at him. Exasperated, he tries not to show any concern. “This is nothing to call my father about, is it?”

“...Is that why you hide yourself?” The man tilts his head at him.

Quinlan grumbles, pretending to focus back on his papers. It’s time for him to start making up proper excuses. Making Merlin a reason would be smart, no? If they pity Quinlan enough, maybe they won’t even tell the man.

“My father and I agree that I don’t want to be separated from what should be the appropriate experience of someone my age,” He begins, scanning down the few pages to double-check before moving onto the next packet.

“Understandable,” Monsieur Bonhomme says. “But what is _‘appropriate’_ , exactly?”

“The part where I won’t have to be singled out?” Quinlan supplies. “Where people don’t have to look at me different?”

“What if you _are_ different? Is that so bad?”

Tsk. Incorrigible man. He sounds far too sincere about it, that’s what’s annoying.

“I don’t want to be on a special list where people can prod and poke at me all of the time,” Quinlan grits out.

For a moment, it’s only silence. Monsieur Bonhomme breaks it, venturing, “Is that why your entrance test doesn’t reflect your actual aptitude?”

Quinlan slows to a stop in his fervent writing, unable to say anything and feeling caught. He thought he could handle blending in. But he’s wasting so much time and he feels it now more than ever. His mother isn’t here to encourage him along. Merlin is--

“Is that what your father told you to do?” Monsieur Bonhomme asks carefully.

_No, it’s what my mother told me._

Instead, Quinlan frowns, noncommittal. “Is there any way I can study what I want and not be ostracised for it?”

“Well it depends on how badly you want it. You’re going to have to choose and make that decision. It is _your_ future.”

Quinlan audibly clicks his tongue and flips the packet over. He ignores Monsieur Bonhomme’s scandalised look and points out the mistake. “There’s a misspelling. That is not how the Law of Syllogism is spelt.”

The man blinks, brows furrowed, clearly perplexed. “The what?”

It’s not like Quinlan can truly blame him, the man’s expertise is in geography and he seems to be on some faculty committee that takes away time for some actual teaching, but--

“The Law of Syllogism, a concept in deductive reasoning. Mathematics,” Quinlan tries to keep his voice even. He doesn’t want to come across as rude any more than he already has. But people are _testing_ his patience.

Monsieur Bonhomme looks over the packet. “...Why did Madame Irwin give you a maths exam for 3ème?”

“Perhaps because she hates me and wants me to fail spectacularly. Little does she know...” Quinlan grumbles under his breath. He _abhors_ her. He’ll break all the rules and win the Nobel prize just to prove her wrong.

“...This is three years beyond 6ème level, you’re not required to take this,” Monsieur Bonhomme starts slowly.

“It’s not an issue. She wants me to prove how far my knowledge goes.” Quinlan takes the packet back, finishing the rest of the questions. “Now, about the future--How do I go on about that? Suggestions?”

 

 

>> 

 

 

Quinlan is at home, mulling his options over. Monsieur Bonhomme has laid it all out for him. There are exams at the end of the year, the kind students older than him have to take. There are plenty of differences between the French and the English education system but students are expected to take those tests around the same time.

The Lycée has an British section for students that starts at a much later level--either because some choose to transition to the British system or because there are diplomats with children who can’t speak French fluently and want to pay for the prestige.

Part of his indecision, he realises, is that somewhere within, he expects to be back in France. If not Quinlan’s urge to run away, Merlin could get tired of him and send him away. But on second thought, how can the man even get the chance to get tired of Quinlan when they barely have time to interact?

Monsieur Bonhomme’s suggestion prods at him and the more he thinks about it, the more appealing it becomes.

 _‘Imagine finishing all the… busywork, as you say.’_ The man had said. ‘ _All your coursework, all the things that you can learn from the highest level this institution can offer. Of course, there will be sacrifices. Time, ostracisicm--as you have mentioned--effort and hard work. But what about after?’_ He had prompted. ‘ _After that you can hopefully live the way you want to live your life. You are so very young. You have far more to look forward to later in life. What is two, three years of taking advantage of the school system and being done with it? You could go to university early, even.’_

Quinlan blankly stares at the screen of his laptop.

University. No more ‘ _the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell_ ’ lectures to suffer through over and over again, no more elementary mathematics. If Quinlan wants to know the world, then he will _have_ it.

His mother isn’t here anymore. He can’t disappoint her.

Quinlan’s elation becomes tainted with guilt and apprehension.

The knock on the door startles him, making it all worse. For a brief second he genuinely considers it’s a burglar checking if there’s anybody in the room, but then it occurs to him that it could be Merlin.

Quinlan glances at the time on his laptop. It’s twenty-one thirty-nine. His brows furrow. That’s far too early for Merlin to be home.

“Enter,” He says anyway, changing windows on his computer. It isn’t until Merlin quietly enters that Quinlan considers that the school could have called him, bothered him at work, demanding for Merlin to have a ‘talk’ with his son.

Dread swirls in Quinlan’s stomach, but he wants to get it over with. He keeps his tone polite. “Yes?”

Merlin is standing a few feet away, tall as ever, but a graceless air of discomfort makes him seem less grand and imposing. “Simply checking in.”

Narrowing his eyes, Quinlan is hit by the realisation that he hasn’t seen Merlin in person for at least a month, if not longer. He doesn’t know what to say. “Well, that’s nice of you.”

Merlin clears his throat. “Anything new? Any problems? Requests? Happenings?”

Quinlan’s tempted to tell him to hand over a questionnaire instead of this torture, but Merlin’s trying somewhat, so he decides against it. There’s an urge to be civil, to give a genuine recap of things, to tell the truth. But that would mean admitting that Merlin was right to begin with and admitting that he’s changed his mind about settling for less.

“Nothing than the usual, really,” Quinlan answers. The exams at the end of the year might have some fees, but Quinlan never spent any of the cash Merlin supplies him with every day, which is about ten quid. Quinlan can easily cover the cost.

Merlin’s expression doesn’t change as he nods, seemingly accepting that answer. Why Quinlan gets the notion that he’s disappointed is odd. He doesn’t question it and watches as Merlin makes a move for the door.

Except the man stops, turning back around.

“Well,” Merlin begins, “I see you’re making use of the laptop.”

Quinlan raises his eyebrows. “Yes, thank you.”

“Would you like me to teach you a few things?”

Quinlan can’t quite help the slow smile that overtakes him.

 

 

>> 

 

 

Admittedly, it’s odd that he sees his teachers more than he sees his own father who supposedly lives under the same roof that he does. But it’s not as if their relationship has been conventional.

Merlin has some interesting skills and knowledge in regards to computers, yes, and it’s one Quinlan takes advantage of in learning.

However, when it comes to guidance and needing someone to confide in, he starts to trust M. Bonhomme for that instead. He sees the man more than he sees Merlin, it makes sense. M. Bonhomme has professional expertise in education as well, so of course Quinlan gravitates to him. It’s not all agreeable, considering Quinlan remains adamant that he refuses to be paraded around winning prizes one after another, so he rejects M. Bonhomme’s suggestions about entering academic contests and whatnot.

But it’s nice. Having a mentor and someone to bounce ideas off of.

It’s a pity that winter holiday gets in the way. Quinlan spends most of it going through exam books, courtesy of M. Bonhomme. He hides the books under his bed in case Merlin ever enters his room without him in it.

“Quinlan,” Merlin says one day. “Didn’t I promise to buy you more books?”

Quinlan stares, trying to remember the last time he saw Merlin in person.

 _Ninth of December, Sunday_ , His brain supplies. _Al Gore was on the BBC for winning a court case that would put him back in the election race._

Ah. Yes. That. Also--“Yes, you did promise me more books,” Quinlan answers simply, absently petting Excalibur. “On my birthday. Back in April.”

Merlin has the decency to look chastised, but Quinlan only frowns at Excalibur. In the back of his mind is the nagging worry of a radish plant’s life expectancy.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask a great deal of effort from you,” Merlin says.

Perplexed, Quinlan squints, wary and curious.

Merlin looks around the space of the house with purpose. “Some updates are going to be made around here. Nothing too grand, of course,” He adds. Quinlan raises his eyebrows, hoping he gets to the point. “I’m going to need you to pack things you’re going to need for about three days to a week.”

Oh.

“Where are we going?” Quinlan instinctively pulls Excalibur closer. “Can I bring him?”

“Yes, you can bring him.”

Quinlan narrows his eyes at the half-answered question.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next two chapters are more exciting rip im trash


	6. 19 December - 25 December 2000

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Intermission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> p.s. sURPRISE GUESTS  
> for future development  
> 8.3k
> 
> *this chapter forced me to update the tags. rip. i hate crossovers yet here i am

 

 

Quinlan doesn’t know what he was expecting, really.

Two days later, they drive into the centre of the city and park somewhere suspiciously inconspicuous. It's only suspicious because they walk an extra twelve minutes to a small private mew in the middle of a bustling London just for Merlin to knock at the house at the end. _Galahad_ opens the door, revealing a part of his hand in a cast.

Quinlan can’t help but make an expression of pure scepticism. Most of the people he’s seen in a cast are children at school who’ve done something so _idiotic_ they’ve broken their bones.

What kind of trouble does this man get into? He’s supposed to be a tailor.

Despite the amiable expression Galahad uses on him, it’s on the side of _too_ much, and somehow Quinlan gets the idea that the man’s just as displeased as he is about this turn of events. It dawns on him too late as he’s being led up the stairs, gazing at the ridiculous number of frames of mismatched art, photos, and _insects_ on the wall that this is where he’ll be _staying_.

Galahad opens a door to a sufficiently sized room, sparse but with basic items and decorations. The bed takes up much of the space and the whole setting is reminiscent a quaint little bed and breakfast. Which is not entirely a good thing. The sheets remind Quinlan of his grandparents' sofa in Martigny.

Suspicion prevents Quinlan from entering.

Merlin takes Quinlan’s rucksack from him and enters the room, placing it on the foot of the bed.

The mere action disturbs _dust_ and Quinlan’s eyes helplessly track them as they permeate the room. Eventually, Quinlan manages to catch Merlin’s unreadable expression to a contrite looking Galahad.

“I don’t have guests often,” Galahad mutters. “I don’t even know why I kept this room available. I could’ve turned it into an art room.”

Merlin scoffs at the subtle threat. “Art. Yes. If one can call it that.”

Galahad purses his lips. It seems rather irrational of Merlin to be rude to the owner of the place they’re bound to be staying, but Quinlan says nothing, entering the room and placing Excalibur on the bedside table.

“Get yourself settled,” Merlin tells him. “We’ll be downstairs talking of work matters if you need us.”

Quinlan frowns at the wording, waving them away. He stays standing in the room and tries to understand why he feels odd and out of place. Slowly, he takes a few steps, scrutinising the place. Galahad wasn't lying. No one has really used this room in a very long time. There’s dust everywhere--Not enough for a public service announcement, but certainly getting there. Dust on the windowsill, the bed, the bedside table, the small desk against the wall, the floor.

He rolls his eyes, taking Excalibur with him when he walks out of the room and makes his way down the stairs. Their murmurs quiet at the sound of him. The last step has him nearly facing a slightly open door which he pushes slowly, and it’s clear that Merlin and Galahad have taken a step back from each other just by the _very_ casual way they turn to him in waiting.

They’re so _casual_ , they’re almost leaning against the dining table.

Quinlan raises his eyebrows, filing that away in his head to be examined later. He gestures to Excalibur instead. “Where can I leave him for sun and nutrients?”

“ _‘Him’_?” Galahad repeats.

“Excalibur,” Quinlan says, gesturing at him again.

Galahad’s stare eventually moves to Merlin who’s keeping a very blank face. Galahad, for all his suave and pompous charm, is rather _graceless_ when it comes to certain things, Quinlan finds, especially when the man finds himself repeating slowly, “...Excalibur…”

Quinlan huffs, annoyed.

“Right,” Galahad says, seemingly back to himself. He makes a move for the door. “Follow me.”

They all go to what seems to be the living area, staring out three large windows.

“This side faces west,” Galahad announces. “The sun will make an appearance here in the afternoons, weather permitting.”

“Thank you,” Quinlan says politely.

Merlin clears his throat, catching Galahad’s attention. There’s a silent conversation happening and Quinlan finds that fascinating.

Galahad ultimately hangs his head down, lips thin. “Right. Might be better to get that out of the way,” He mutters, moving back to the hallway and going straight for the door on the end.

With Merlin’s head tilt, Quinlan follows.

Galahad stands by the open door, gesturing to what seems to be the bathroom. Except for the fact there’s a bloody _dog_ on a shelf. An actual dog--but it’s not _alive_ , and Quinlan can only stare in mild horror and perplexity.

He turns back to find Merlin out in the hallway, frowning and crossing his arms, partly leaning against the wall. Galahad’s throat clearing makes him focus again.

“This is Mr. Pickle,” Galahad begins, and Quinlan never thought he could ever describe Galahad as _awkward_ but--“He was a good friend of mine for a very long time. I couldn’t just let him go after--you know.”

Silence permeates the place and he’s suddenly wary of the fact that they’re waiting for a reaction. Merlin’s probably behind him just in case he tries to run away in horror, but--

“Alright,” Quinlan says simply. He can understand. His mother wouldn’t be pleased if she ever knew, but he can see the appeal.

“... _‘Alright’_ ,” Galahad repeats cautiously.

Quinlan shrugs. “Yes.”

He thinks he can see shock and disappointment on Galahad’s expression.

“Well, then,” Merlin says, “That’s done.”

Something occurs to Quinlan and he ends up blurting it out. “Where will _you_ sleep?” He asks Merlin, turning around. It strikes him too late that maybe Galahad and Merlin might be sharing a room because--

“I’m not staying,” Merlin tells him, having the gall to look contrite. “I have to supervise the work in the house.”

Quinlan stares for a moment, trying to understand.

So he will be here, stuck in this place, with this strange man who has dead insects on the wall and a dead stuffed dog in his loo. Alone.

“I see.”

What else could Quinlan possibly say?

 

 

>> 

 

 

Moments with Galahad are filled with graceless silence and stilted attempts of polite conversation.

It’s so unbearable that Quinlan forgoes propriety during dinner. “So how does a tailor get his arm in a cast?”

Galahad pauses, the spoon of soup halfway in its trajectory. “I’m afraid I don’t have the punchline to that joke.”

When it’s time for Quinlan to go to bed, he finds himself eerily awake far longer than he should be. He’s on the bed, over the duvet, clutching Excalibur on his stomach. The bloody sheets really do remind him of his grandparents. Quinlan’s written them letters. It’s just that he’s never sent them. He hasn’t written anything in the last few months but he’s composed a letter days ago with the Christmas holiday in mind.

Perhaps—perhaps he can send this one. Does he have to ask Merlin’s permission for that? Does the man know their address? Because Quinlan sure as hell doesn’t. He’s not a bloody genius with an eidetic memory. He remembers things in relation to _days_ \--and that’s if he’s managed to acknowledge the day itself. Otherwise, it’s just a blur. He doesn’t recall things the way his mother would have wanted him to.

Either way, he’s learned plenty of things today. His brain will no doubt process it in his sleep. He’ll have proper conclusions tomorrow.

 

 

>> 

 

 

Breakfast is odd. But that’s simply because Quinlan isn’t used to the situation. He’s stuck trying to figure out how Galahad’s managed to put on his long-sleeved white shirt without apparent trouble from his cast.

“You have work, yes?” Quinlan asks instead.

Galahad eyes him with a hint of humour and suspicion. “You clearly require supervision simply from that question alone.”

Quinlan scowls, miffed. “It was only a question.”

“I have a home office upstairs,” Galahad tells him. “So yes, I might get some work done.”

“What is it with tailors having home offices?” Quinlan questions, nose scrunching. He doubts it’s an actual workshop for tailors. Merlin has a desk with piles of files and documents after all.

“Paperwork is universal, I’m afraid.”

 

 

>> 

 

 

Galahad’s plans seem to be put to a halt when the home telephone rings.

It’s situated on the wall between the living room and the bar area. Another similarity between Merlin and Galahad. Liquor. Liquor and tailoring.

Along with suspicious activities.

Quinlan frowns, trying not to look when Galahad eventually comes into the living room. The ringing stops before the man gets to it. Galahad waits for a beat clearly hoping it won't ring again, but alas.

Quinlan raises his book higher as he tries to concentrate on reading, but really he’s trying hard not to smile at the misery.

“Yes?” Galahad says, polite. “Ah. Yes--And?” There’s a long pause of silence where Galahad only listens. Quinlan honestly tries not to. There are always these moments when his senses try to rebel and invade people’s privacy and he works hard to reign them in.

Galahad curses under his breath, glancing at his watch. Quinlan tries not to perk up. “Right. I see--No, I...understand.” Watching him trying to be polite shouldn’t be as amusing as it is.

The conversation ends and Quinlan ultimately breaks the silence. “Have to go somewhere?” At the lack of reply, Quinlan simply tries to assure him. “It’s alright--I can take care of myself. Merlin leaves me all alone in the house plenty.”

Galahad’s eyes slightly narrow at him. There seems to be a decision made. “No. I’m afraid you’re going to have to take a walk with me.”

Quinlan raises his eyebrows. “Will I, now?”

 

 

>> 

 

 

It’s ridiculous how Galahad dresses in his full suit and all like he’s going to work for the whole day. Nothing looks out of place except for the slight bulk in his right forearm and the cast that peeks out due to his hand.

Quinlan huffs at the man’s antics as he waits in the foyer.

Galahad frowns at him.

“What?” Quinlan prompts.

“Scarf.”

“Yes--I’m wearing two, actually--It’s cold,” Quinlan explains slowly.

Galahad gestures, stilted, appearing discomforted. “Could you...tuck the ends out of sight?”

Instead of asking why, Quinlan just does it, huffing and rolling his eyes. “Do you want me to cover half my face as well?” Quinlan drawls, sardonic. It’s something Merlin asks of him constantly without managing to say it outright.

“Yes, that’s a good idea,” Galahad murmurs without irony.

Quinlan glares, following him out.

When Galahad had said they were going for a walk, he suspected that to be a lie. He assumed they were going to the tailor shop he and Merlin are so obsessed about to do some emergency work. Whatever that translates to with tailors.

But no. They’re actually walking for about seven minutes when they near what seems to be a school. The building looks the same from every other building it’s attached to on the street and Quinlan only knows it’s a school because small girls in uniforms are exiting to their waiting parents. He finds himself tilting his head at the scene.

It must be because they’re so young that parents still feel close enough to dote on them. And with eager affection.

Interesting.

Galahad frowns, checking something on a device that he’s holding far too high for Quinlan to see due to his height. Quinlan can’t wait to grow up and be tall. He hopes to be taller than Galahad just out of spite.

“Tsk,” Galahad clicks his tongue, muttering under his breath. “Come along.”

Puzzled, Quinlan only follows. They take the same route back except they make a turn to the square they simply passed by earlier. It’s a small park. Nevertheless, Quinlan can appreciate London’s attempt to keep the green in their city. No matter how pathetic. Every bit counts, he supposes.

Galahad stops, frowning down at his device again. Quinlan waits and tries not to be impatient. After all, it almost feels like they’re hunting for something. He would never admit it, but the excitement is steadily rising and he finds himself alert as he looks around, slowly wandering off.

Inspiration seems to be inevitable as he walks around the greenery. He can’t help but wonder if he should commit and replant Excalibur in a much bigger space. That would mean Quinlan can't take him around with him whenever he pleases. Unless, of course, Quinlan waits for Excalibur’s second summer for the seeds to naturally grow. Perhaps there can be a separate place in the back garden full of Excalibur’s future generation--

He startles when he finally snaps out of his deep thought to realise there’s someone sat on the bench beyond the high bushes beside him. A few yards away, the girl is already staring at him with suspicion. It’s bizarre for someone no more than eight to look at him like that. But then again, what a strange oddity he must seem with his head slightly peeking over the bushes, Quinlan thinks, self-conscious.

“Err--”

“Lady Morton,” Galahad exhales, exasperated and stern as he passes Quinlan by completely to go for the child on the bench. He stops a few feet away and she looks up at him with a mixture of awe and contrition.

“Uncle Galahad,” She mutters. Quinlan is appalled, but so is Galahad who is clearly rife with discomfort.

“Well, the nanny is waiting for you,” Galahad begins. “Along with the chauffeur, no doubt.”

Her gaze is full of fire as she stares up at him, shoulders straight. “ _No_. Alistair said he’d be the one to pick me up this time. He’s promised for months. The last day of school before the Christmas holidays,” She recites with vehemence, “The twenty-second of December. He’s meant to be _here_.”

Galahad’s expression remains firm, but his sigh belies _something_ and Quinlan can’t quite pick up on it. “Yes. But things at work are--”

The girl’s petulant mouth morphs into something worse, the way children’s mouths do before they’re about to cry and Quinlan feels the need to look away just in case tragedy strikes.

“Lady Morton,” Galahad sighs again. “Your Uncle Lancelot will come by on Sunday to visit, how about that?”

 _God_ , Quinlan thinks with distaste, looking back at the scene. _Lancelot_. And this girl is addressed as _Lady_. They’re all taking the Arthurian legends too far to the point of childishness unbefitting of men their age. Nevertheless, the girl perks up, excited.

“Really?”

“Yes, he’s doing his best to get Pe--Alistair back home as well,” Galahad says, lips thin. “Meanwhile--”

“I can stay with you, yes?” Her eyes shine, and Quinlan suspects it’s partly unshed tears. Why _anybody_ would ever want to stay with _Galahad_ is beyond him. Surely Galahad is asking the same thing considering he’s staring up at the sky like it can give him answers. Quinlan wonders if the girl can see him grinding his teeth.

“Well,” Galahad mutters, “That’s an option that has been discussed, yes, however--”

The girl stands, energised, interlinking Galahad’s arm with hers. Galahad’s carefully neutral expression actually causes Quinlan some guilt, because she’s held onto the arm with the cast. She frowns. “What’s this?”

“Work related accident,” Galahad manages, starting the slow walk back and avoiding her shrewd look.

“Is Alistair going to have some of that as well?”

“That, I don’t know. You’ll see for yourself.” Despite the dismissive aspect, the girl seems reassured at that.

She doesn’t hide her curious scrutiny at Quinlan once they get closer to him.

“And who might you be?” She asks, polite.

“I wasn’t a peeping tom, that’s for certain,” Quinlan finds himself saying, holding his hand out for a handshake. “Quinlan Aurélian.”

“Roxanne Morton,” She replies, taking his hand and shaking it with a firm grip. She tilts her head up at Galahad in question.

“Merlin’s...ward,” Galahad supplies. Quinlan refrains from narrowing his eyes.

“Ah.” She nods as they walk along, Galahad inbetween them. “Don’t know him that well. Saw him only once, but he’s a decent gentleman, I suppose.”

Quinlan scrunches his face at the description.

 

 

>> 

 

 

“You didn’t think this through,” Quinlan tells Galahad as they all stare into the guest room.

Roxanne Morton huffs. “It’s not an issue, you know. Surely boys and girls sleep in the same place on the field?”

Quinlan squints at her, attempting to parse out the meaning.

Galahad mutters under his breath, palming at his suit jacket in an uncharacteristic tell of nerves. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just make a call to consult--”

“It’s fine,” Quinlan assures him, surprised by his own goodwill. “I can sleep on the sofa downstairs. Besides, that’s where I can keep an eye on Excalibur for the day.”

Her brows furrow. “Who’s Excalibur?”

“My...” For once, Quinlan finds himself hanging his head down. “...plant.”

“Oh.” The furrow on her brows ultimately disappears and she shrugs. “Alright. I’d like to meet them sometime.”

Quinlan tries to ignore the hope blooming in his chest. “Really?”

“Mhm.” She appears genuine, and what she seems to find odd--going by the quirk of an eyebrow--is him questioning her about it.

“Right, well, yes. Alright.”

 

 

>> 

 

 

Galahad’s at the head of the dining table, frowning and squinting at nothing in particular, seemingly in a state of consternation.

Quinlan shares a look with Roxanne from across the table.

“Galahad,” Quinlan begins carefully.

“I’ve called you both down here to ask for...consultation.”

“....Uhuh…?” Roxanne tries, clearly moving the conversation along.

“Shall we have takeaway?” Galahad finally asks.

Takeaway. Quinlan’s heard of it. But he’s never had any. It would make sense, Galahad’s right arm is indisposed at the moment. Dinner for three is different than breakfast of soup and toast for two.

Roxanne perks up with cautious interest. “What kind?”

Galahad raises an eyebrow. “On second thought, nevermind. Percival would have me killed--”

“But Uncle Galahad! I won’t tell a soul,” Roxanne protests, earnest. “Besides, Uncle Lancelot spoils me a little on that front, that ship has sailed.”

Galahad gapes and Quinlan tries to memorise the rare expression until the man has composed himself. “Well, then,” Galahad begins. “Just for tonight,” He warns, “After this, I’ll be better prepared, I’m sure.”

“Mhm,” Roxanne murmurs in agreement. “Better to time it before the nanny comes with my belongings. No chance of mole activity!”

“Very wise, very wise,” Galahad absently says, making his way out to the living area for the telephone, no doubt.

 

 

>> 

 

 

Settled on one of the sofas for the night, along with extra pillows and a similarly dusty duvet, Quinlan is actually comfortable. Takeaway was an _experience_. Galahad couldn’t decide what to get so they had at least three different types of cuisine. Chinese, Italian, and Indian. He doesn’t remember having eaten so much. It must be why he falls asleep quicker than he did last night.

However, his sleep is no match for his senses picking up on the noise late into the night. He instinctively reaches for Excalibur at the side table over his head, confused at why he’s awake.

A step--Perhaps behind the wall right beside him, the one separating the living area and the foyer.

Shuffling. Shuffling, why? What for?

 _Shoes_.

Someone putting on shoes. Soon enough, the door opens, quiet just as it’s closed. The sound of the lock follows after.

Quinlan squints at the ceiling, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. It’s none of his business if Galahad takes late night walks. Tsk. He shifts slightly on the sofa, trying to get comfortable enough to sleep again. He doesn’t know how long it takes until he finally feels it overtake him.

Another disturbance interrupts his sleep and he huffs in annoyance, shifting to the side and trying to ignore it.

That is until he _realises_ \--A cold chill runs up his spine as a muffled _shriek_ makes itself heard. Quinlan falls to the floor in his haste to get out of the cocoon he’s made for himself with the duvet. His senses immediately track the location, but he’s already grabbed Excalibur, running to the hallway and up the stairs.

He bursts into the room, finding Roxanne thrashing on the bed with abrupt cries that stop and start again.

“No, mummy, don’t go--” She whimpers, breath hitching, and something within Quinlan _clenches_ in abominable _misery_ , freezing him in place.

Until she visibly jerks like she’s been hit and she _sobs_ , “No, no, no, not you too--Don’t leave me--Alistair--”

_Merde, merde, merde._

How does one wake someone in a nightmare? Quinlan cautiously approaches, setting Excalibur aside on the bedside table. Looming over her would not be good once she wakes up to see him, and kneeling on the floor to poke at her would be something from a horror film.

“Roxanne,” Quinlan tries, but she whimpers quietly and he doesn’t know what to do. It’s been a very long while since he’s felt this helpless and she’s so _small_.

She’s only eight. As much as Quinlan is capable of going back to a date in time in his head to remember a day, he can’t possibly remember being eight at this very moment. He sits on the bed, shoulders hunched, meekly reaching out to lay a hand on her arm.

“Roxanne,” He tries, voice firm. “Roxanne--” Suddenly, she turns, and his hand is shrugged off because she’s _slamming_ her arm back. Quinlan falls off the bed, staring at the floor in shock. His cheek is pulsing from the _sting_ and--

“Huh?” She mutters, groggy. Quinlan sits up, head peeking over the bed.

“You had a nightmare.” He watches her carefully in trepidation, ready to evade if she strikes again. But she only furrows her brows as she sits up, hand slowly coming up to her face. She stares at the tears that comes off with the action. Her expression suddenly distorts, as if she’s remembered the nightmare itself and Quinlan finds himself panicking.

He grabs Excalibur from the bedside table and offers, “Would you like to hold him?”

She stares at him oddly, holding Excalibur gingerly. She frowns down at the plant. “He’s heavier than he looks.”

“Isn’t he?” Quinlan’s quick to say, huffing.

Roxanne bites at her lip, glancing beyond Quinlan to the slightly open door. “Did I wake everybody?”

“Ah, well, Galahad went out for...a walk, I think,” He answers, unsure what to say.

Nodding, she seems to take that as a valid answer. “Mmm. He gets like that around this time of the year.”

“Does he, now?” Quinlan asks on automatic, absently wondering how well she knows the man.

“He said it’s the curse,” She tells him, as if imparting a secret.

“The curse?”

“Mhm,” She hums, successfully distracted and lightly petting Excalibur’s leaves. “Or Uncle Lancelot did, anyway. We tried to invite Galahad over last year. Alistair said there’s no point, but Uncle Lance said that there’s a curse that activates around the weeks surrounding Christmas time.”

“...Is that so?” Quinlan plays along, dubious.

She glances at him, mildly annoyed at the prospect of being doubted. “It’s why he’s injured! It’s the curse.”

“Would you like to see a magic trick?” He blurts out instead, not wanting to upset her.

Sniffling, she stares at him oddly. But she agrees and he runs down to get his rucksack to take back with him. By the time Quinlan returns, the bed is neater and Excalibur is beside her. She seems calmer and he tries not to look too closely because, well, she’s English after all. Repressing emotions is a thing. He’d rather not shatter the illusion of such dignity.

He focuses on getting the magic properly executed instead, appreciating her amazed huff of disbelief and the abrupt laughter that shocks both of them, further reducing them into giggles.

 

 

>> 

 

 

Galahad squints at him during breakfast. The man went out for some fresh bread and pastries. There’s also a salad for Quinlan and a handful of fresh fruits, so it wouldn’t be the right time to be rude.

Quinlan settles for raising an eyebrow.

Galahad frowns, shaking his head and focusing on his plate instead. Which has nothing in it. A fact which seemingly surprises the man himself. Which is silly, because he never put anything in it in the first place. Quinlan looks away, catching Roxanne’s gaze in the process.

 _It’s the curse_ , She seems to say. Quinlan rolls his eyes.

“Teach me the trick,” Roxanne says later in the living room. Galahad has gone upstairs to ‘work’. Whatever that is.

“A proper magician never reveals the techniques behind their tricks.”

Roxanne purses her lips. Quinlan is appalled. It's almost a pout. Almost. He’s never struggled so much before. She sniffs, turning her head away. A few moments later, she turns back, watching him carefully. “What if...I teach you how to disarm a perpetrator?”

Quinlan blinks, mind going blank. “I’m--I’m sorry, what?”

“Someone who has a weapon,” She explains simply. “Knife, particularly.”

What in the world--How would-- _Why_ \--Quinlan gapes. She’s bloody _eight_.

Curiosity is a curse, he thinks, furious with himself.

“...Just one trick, alright? And I get to choose which one.”

 

 

>> 

 

 

Quinlan is bruised in more than one place, he’s sure of it.

Roxanne Morton is stubborn with an air of righteous pride. She is _tenacious_ in her attempts to teach him, but working hard to be patient herself, even when she frowns and tells him to do it again. Their makeshift weapon is a pen that Quinlan’s been using to get some studying done and she ultimately huffs to tell him they should move on.

Quinlan mistakenly thinks he’s free.

Because while she disappears, she returns with a knife from the kitchen and Quinlan can’t do anything but stare. When he finds the will to speak, he tries to be sensible.

“You know, I think we should focus on the magic now.”

There’s disappointment in her slight frown. “Oh. Alright. It’s okay to be scared--If it’s any consolation, you’ve been doing better than I expected.” She nods like she’s giving him a comment that should bestow him with pride. And--well, actually, it does. Quinlan is free to feel it when she goes away to return the knife.

When it comes to the magic, Roxanne is eager to learn and get things right. So much so that Quinlan finds himself moving on to teach her a few basic origami folds. This one she has less patience for, but she perseveres.

“Let’s do butterflies,” She eventually suggests.

“Why?”

“So we can give it to Uncle Galahad for Christmas, of course!”

Quinlan scrunches his nose, but there’s logic in that and so he gives in, teaching her one of the easy to medium butterfly techniques he knows of. For the sake of her patience, and, well, he’s saving the more complicated version for himself. There's a selfish need to be better for appearances sake. It's very odd. He's always managed to resist that before.

A couple of hours of teaching and learning back and forth, they take a break and simply talk about themselves.

Roxanne goes to Falkner House School which consists of only girls. She complains that there’s no boys to beat during games because apparently in her experience they don’t take it very well if a girl beats them, so she thinks she’s missing out on excitement. Still, she settles for besting everyone in manners and being ladylike. Quinlan talks of the Lycée and his own gripes about it, because there are _plenty_. Even he himself is surprised by the amount he comes up with, but it’s not like he’s had anyone to vent to. M. Bonhomme works for the school, he can’t offend him _too_ much.

So far, Roxanne doesn’t seem to find anything odd with the dead dog in the lavatory because she’s used it within the last twenty-four hours and there’s been no complaint whatsoever. But then again, she’s been here before.

That’s something to ponder about. Quinlan honestly wonders why she prefers to be here. Galahad barely interacts with them at all unless it’s to inform them of something or during meal times. The two of them are free to make something for themselves as well, so they don’t technically need him.

Nevertheless, dinner is Galahad coming home with restaurant quality meals, plated nicely in their serving containers.

“This doesn’t count as takeaway,” Galahad beats Quinlan to it, raising a finger. Quinlan huffs, relenting, and Roxanne grins as Galahad goes on. “This is from a Michelin star establishment with fresh ingredients and no preservatives. I even made sure to get extra vegetables.”

Later that night, Quinlan wakes to a light noise. He shifts in his place to find that Roxanne is asleep on the sofa perpendicular to his and he tries to go back to sleep again, squashing the giddy mess of positive emotions.

 

 

>> 

 

 

It’s not that he didn’t get along with people before. Quinlan has plenty of acquaintances at school and they have interesting conversations sometimes. But it’s different. This is different. It’s even odd because people don’t tend to associate with people younger than they are and Quinlan’s no exception to this rule. Children don’t like to be with younger children. There’s something...uncouth about it.

But he finds that he more than tolerates Roxanne Morton. He’s fond of her.

Once, Quinlan had broached the topic of having siblings to his mother. She didn’t look pleased. He never brought it up again.

Which is why it’s terribly disappointing when the telephone rings and Galahad makes it in time to answer. He tells Roxanne to go upstairs to start packing her things. A few minutes later, someone is knocking on the front door and Roxanne hasn’t even finished. It’s barely sundown. Quinlan was under the impression that she’d be here until whenever this Alistair person would come to take her. There was a mention of someone else visiting but it was just that. _Visiting_.

Sullen after a quick goodbye handshake, Quinlan hovers as she walks down the steps and through the hallway. The moment she passes by the foyer, she immediately gasps and runs.

Quinlan catches up to finally see that she’s hugging a man in a suit crouched to her level. He has a gash on his temple and Quinlan frowns. Hooligan tailors, the lot of them.

“Uncle Lance,” She starts, slightly muffled with her face hidden against the man’s neck. The man breathes with a certain kind of exhaustion, nodding along and patting her shoulder, but she pulls back, asking, “Where’s Alistair?”

The man can’t quite meet her eyes, but he holds her face gently. “We’re going to get you settled back home first, alright?”

“...No, what’s wrong?” Her voice is soft with a tinge of _distress_ and Quinlan struggles to stay where he is because Galahad had pulled him aside earlier, telling him to stay out of sight. It’s tempting to disregard him and rebel but there was something dreadfully serious about his request.

And so he stays hidden behind the wall, covered by the tall fake plant for whenever he gives in the urge to peek.

“It’s all fine,” The man reassures her, palms sweeping over her hair. “It’s all fine.”

“Then why does it feel like you’re lying? Is he gone? Did he leave me too? Like mother and father--” Her voice cracks and Quinlan remembers her nightmare.

“No,” The man says, firm and soothing. “ _No_ , your Uncle Alistair is just fine. He’s just--He’s just asleep at the moment but I’ll show you--I’ll take you to him.”

Roxanne looks down, seemingly disbelieving and dejected. Galahad remains quiet in his place by the wall a few feet back, arms crossed. Doesn't that hurt the arm with the cast? Quinlan genuinely wonders.

“ _Roxy_ ,” Lancelot breathes, tilting her head gently so their gazes meet. “When has Uncle Lancelot ever lied to you? _I_ _promise_.”

Eventually, she nods, shoulders straightening.

“Good,” He says, giving her a quick proud smile and pinching her cheek. She huffs, put-upon, but when the man rotates the pinch in a circle, she smiles, helpless. “Your nanny is outside waiting in the car. If I can just talk to Galahad for a bit? I’ll follow you out.”

“Yes, sir!” Roxanne salutes. However, she takes few steps back to Galahad, holding a hand out. Discomforted, Galahad lets his left arm reach haltingly. Roxanne takes it, squeezing gently and nodding in thanks.

No amount of stoicism can hide Galahad’s painfully awkward unease, especially when he looks down to find a small paper butterfly in his hand. Roxanne opens the front door to leave, but she catches Quinlan’s gaze and beams before she disappears.

That’s fine. Everyone leaves someday.

Lancelot stands and Quinlan cringes at the sound of his joints popping. It takes him a brief second to catch onto the strange tension. Lancelot sighs, pulling neatly at his suit.

“Thank you--”

“It’s none of my business,” Galahad says, tone blank. “But you don’t get to make such promises. You should know that already.”

Lancelot’s mouth thins. “Alistair’s one of the only relatives she has left in this world. At least, the only one that _matters_ \--”

“And whose fault is that?” Galahad prompts, neutral. Quinlan feels an ominous churn in his stomach. What if they get into some sort of altercation? Lancelot’s jaw is clenched, but he seemingly calms after a moment. However, Galahad doesn’t relent, voice low in his murmur, “The child’s bound to know someday. Annalise and Philippe Morton would still be alive if it wasn’t for--”

“I am _fully_ aware,” Lancelot grinds out. “It is your prerogative to deal with your guilt, Galahad--Or _not_ deal with it--But it’s my prerogative to deal with my _own_ ,” Lancelot maintains. “As long as Percival allows me, I will do my best to dote on that child.”

Galahad purses his lips, staring at the far wall. “You are not bringing the child to the manor.” Somehow, the statement is a threat, Quinlan thinks. Lancelot is shaking his head anyway, undeterred. It seems to agitate Galahad, furthering his cold demeanour. “Arthur will _not_ be pleased.”

“I take full responsibility,” Lancelot vows, grave. “Besides--It’ll be Christmas. There’s nowhere else she’d rather be.”

Quinlan thinks Galahad has more to say but the man’s doing a stellar job in keeping his mouth pressed together. Lancelot huffs, upbeat. “Once again, thank you. I’d ask you to have a Happy Christmas, but, well--”

“The sentiment is received.”

 

 

>> 

 

 

Having snuck off upstairs to the unlit guest room, Quinlan sits on the bed and frowns at Excalibur. He reaches for one of his leaves, listless.

The embarrassment of being attached to be left feeling this _empty_ catches up with him.

Ridiculous. He doubts he’s ever going to see her again as well. Quinlan should start getting over it. The sooner the better.

He’ll settle for his acquaintances in the Lycée. They’re fun in their own way. Granted, they don’t know any self-defence techniques, but--

Quinlan’s brows furrow and he glances to the slightly open door. Eventually, a shadow passes, followed by Galahad who uselessly knocks once. The action only serves to open the door wider. The man leans against the doorway, arms crossed.

“To recap, what will you be telling your father?” It’s a simple question, colourless. It’s not a threat.

 _Though it could easily be_ , a part of Quinlan points out. Perhaps it’s instinct, but he’s wary of Galahad. It’s the same way he’s wary of Merlin as well but simply...more. Despite that, he doesn't feel threatened, not exactly.

So Quinlan remains true as he raises an eyebrow. “You are under the impression that I tell Merlin things.”

“...Yes, well...He’s going to ask about your weekend.”

“Will he?” Quinlan tilts his head, genuinely curious and slightly alarmed. “That’s a novel idea.”

Galahad opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something, but the man gives up in a huff, shaking his head. “I’ll go find dinner.”

Quinlan frowns. “There’s plenty of leftovers.”

It’s true. From the past two days alone, there’s an abundance of food and--

Galahad’s expression is pointed and sardonic. “Those are all for me.”

 

 

>> 

 

 

Quinlan is fully aware that he could go out and wander. Perhaps never come back, even. Galahad isn't here to stop him. He briefly imagines how that conversation with Merlin would go. How much trouble would Galahad get into exactly?

Would their friendship never be the same?

On that line of thought, something occurs to him.

‘ _Those are all for me_ ,’ Galahad had said of the leftovers. Why had he said that like he was actually looking forward to it? It’s the twenty-fourth of December. Isn't the man going to celebrate Christmas with newly cooked food?

As solitary as Galahad may seem, he’s bound to have relatives _somewhere_.

Absently folding pieces of spare papers, Quinlan is so deep in thought with going over what’s happened over the past few days that he doesn’t even realise it when Galahad’s returned.

The man gives him a strange look, perhaps one of mild surprise. Quinlan scowls, following him to the dining room and watching him putter around in the kitchen. “Did you expect me to run away?”

“Can’t say it didn’t cross my mind,” Galahad eventually responds, distracted.

Narrowing his eyes, Quinlan decides it’s time to get some answers. “Let’s play a game,” He suggests once they get settled at the dining table.

Galahad gives him an odd look before focusing on his dinner. “I don’t play games.”

“I’m in your house. I’m your responsibility, yes?”

“...Yes, however my responsibility involving you only extends to your safety and survival,” Galahad tells him, eyebrows raised. “Your boredom is hardly a priority.”

Quinlan mulls that over. Despite Galahad’s own wishes, Quinlan thinks they’re already starting the game. He tries not to feel too proud at that and keeps his tone neutral. “I think you’ll find that my boredom relates to my safety.”

Galahad takes his time chewing his food as he scrutinises him. The man mutters under his breath. Quinlan thinks he hears the word _‘hellspawn’_ , but Galahad finally gets with the programme. “What sort of game?”

“A game I shall call…' _Information',_ ” Quinlan eventually decides, ignoring Galahad’s astonished huff. “We ask each other questions, we do our best to answer.”

“Did your father put you up to this?” Galahad snorts.

“No--Very good, you’re getting the hang of it.” Quinlan is pleased at the turn of events. “My turn. On the subject of Merlin, do you want me out of the way?”

Galahad’s brows furrow. “Explain. I don’t see how one has to do with the other.”

“You left me alone,” Quinlan points out. “It’s almost as if you wanted me to run away.” Whether that’s alarm or amusement on Galahad’s expression, Quinlan honestly can’t tell.

“We would have found you either way.”

“You sound very certain of that,” Quinlan says neutrally, trying not to let on how challenged he is. And there’s that _‘we’_ again. Something Merlin is guilty of using when it comes to Galahad.

“What does that have to do with Merlin?” Galahad huffs.

“Well,” Quinlan begins, preparing himself. “A lot of things has come to my attention.” Quinlan’s pause has Galahad slowing to a stop in wait. “There’s no need to...hide your relationship.”

The moment of following silence has Galahad blinking. “I--Pardon?”

Quinlan nods, trying to be mature about this. Back in the Lycée, children had asked each other of what their parents did for a living. Quinlan had answered something related to tailoring and this had brought on speculations about his father’s sexuality. Ones he ignored. It was a stereotype, after all, that a man who had something to do with fashion was a queer.

The recent revelation of Roxanne’s guardians did nothing to help that, of course. Nevertheless--

“It’s not really...an issue,” Quinlan tries. “You can visit the house--visit _him_ \--as often as...well, as you two used to...meet before I ever came along.” He remembers that time Galahad tried to sneak in with the jumpers and asked him not to tell Merlin. Perhaps because Merlin told him not to come over anymore. “Don’t let me get in the way.”

Galahad eventually makes use of his open mouth. “Well, that’s--I’m sure your father will... _appreciate_ the sentiment,” He says the word ‘appreciate’ like it’s bound to be hilarious, but he’s clearly holding back and attempting for a neutral expression. Quinlan squints. Galahad clears his throat. “However--”

“Does that mean you’ll be spending Christmas with us, then?”

Galahad’s mouth presses together. Whatever it is, he’s not upset at Quinlan, but that doesn’t help narrow down the source of whatever’s made the man serious again. “No, I’m afraid not. I’ll be back at work by the evening.”

Quinlan frowns, eyeing where the cast should be under Galahad’s sleeve. “...Alright.”

 

 

>> 

 

 

Maybe Galahad is embarrassed still. Or perhaps Merlin is insistent on the secrecy. Quinlan must remind himself to talk to Merlin about this. _Tsk_. Why adults insist on hiding such simple things is beyond him. Simply tell the truth and get it over with, is that so difficult?

Quinlan huffs, shifting on the guest room bed, uncomfortable. The root of it all must be the English repression. Granted, Merlin is Scottish, but, well--The point stands.

Muttering, he finally falls asleep.

It’s also how he wakes up. His system’s still not settled being in this place. Noises tend to catch his attention. Back at home, it doesn’t matter if Merlin comes in late at night—or not at all--Quinlan’s senses will more often than not ignore it. _Here_ is another story altogether.

Quinlan grumbles, grabbing for the pillows to cover his head with. Unfortunately, there’s that familiar _metallic ringing_ and no amount of willing it away helps.

He finds himself freezing.

Oh. That’s Merlin. He always walks a certain way. People often do.

Quinlan scrunches his nose. What time is it? It’s still dark. Surely it’s too early to leave?

“--Let him sleep.”

“Oh? A weekend with a child and you’re already an expert?”

Oh no. Not this. What if they do something...adult? In a panic, Quinlan moves his fingers to scratch at the sheets again and again, hoping his hearing will focus on that instead.

“...Bad day?”

“--Interrupted--Bit of a crisis--Lancelot being an utter buffoon.”

Quinlan resorts to patting the mattress non-stop, but then again it seems they’re talking about work, so when his hands tire, he doesn’t persevere.

“Dare I ask?”

“You’re bound to know soon. Arthur won’t let this pass. A special meeting will be called.”

Blessed silence. Quinlan curls up and rolls himself in the duvet, enjoying the muted silence that seems to be--

“Did you see the girl?” Galahad asks. Tsk.

“No, they’re holed up in medical, the three of them--Or so the latest update said.”

“Hmm.”

“...Nothing to say?” Merlin prompts.

 _Be quiet and let me sleep,_ Quinlan internally grouses.

“What do you _want_ me to say?” Galahad responds, listless. “That’s it’s a waste?”

“At this point it wouldn’t be wrong.”

“Nor would it be right--If it were you, if you were stuck in medical, wouldn’t you want him to be there?”

“No,” Merlin is quick to say. “Don’t be ridiculous. That goes against everything we signed up for--How's your punishment?” There seems to be a rush for a quick subject change and Quinlan's _this_ close to getting up and walking over to where they are just to glare. Because what's better than a subject change? Silence.

Sleep is important for the mind. The mind is important for the body.

"What punishment?" Galahad prompts. "That implies I'm in the wrong. May I remind you that he ran into my knife--He ran into my knife ten times."

Quinlan frowns. If he's hallucinating lyrics from a sub-par musical, it must mean he's on his way to sleep at last.

 

 

>> 

 

 

Quinlan doesn’t even know how he wakes up because he doesn’t remember having fallen asleep. Either way, he’s not in a good mood. It’s early morning when he’s woken up by Merlin. At least for a non-school day. While there’s light outside, the sun doesn’t exactly _shine_. It's London and it's winter. The worst combination.

It’s odd, the three of them having breakfast. Four, actually, considering Excalibur has his place on the table.

It's even more bizarre how Galahad's in _normal_ clothes. He's not wearing his suit. Instead, he has a cream-coloured cardigan over a white long-sleeved shirt. Quinlan doesn't really know why it's cringeworthy.

That is, until he realises it's another similarity between Galahad and Merlin. Before, it was sharp suits. Now it's soft jumpers and cardigans.

The temptation to bring up their probable relationship is only curbed by the strange tension. Because Galahad meets his eyes once and he has this look of badly hidden _hilarity_ before he manages to fully suppress it. He doesn’t know if that’s a challenge or not. Quinlan scowls either way.

When Galahad sees them to the door, Quinlan waits until Merlin’s out of earshot to give into his urge to be petulant and mutter, “Soundproof your office.”

He relishes Galahad’s dumbfounded look and leaves him with it, along with the complex origami butterfly he’s spent some of his spare time on.

 

 

>> 

 

 

Upon first glance of entering the house, nothing seems to be changed. Smells different though, cleaning chemicals perhaps. Either way, after he sets Excalibur in the back garden, he walks upstairs, genuinely debating whether or not to go sleep.

That is, until he realises Merlin’s following him.

Quinlan gives him an odd look, but Merlin only stands by the door to the guest room in wait. The man’s expression is neutral, but it’s the vibe of him. Nervous, Quinlan thinks. If that's a word he can use to ever describe Merlin.

He rolls his eyes, setting his rucksack in his room. If this is a well needed conversation about Galahad, he’s willing to suffer it once to get it over with.

Merlin, however, opens the guest room--which has been locked for a long time--and Quinlan blinks. Merlin gestures for him to enter, and once he does, he turns on the light.

Quinlan gapes at the room. It’s very different from what he remembers it to be. The floors are padded with large soft textured foam tiles and it almost reminds him of élémentaire, except it’s dark and clearly for heavy duty work. On one of the walls is a massive whiteboard with markers and erasers neatly prepared on the bottom. That is most certainly going to be useful with sorting out the mess in his head.

In the far end of the space is a violin on a special stand and his hands can only hover.

“Go on,” Merlin says. “It’s meant to be tuned already.”

Quinlan sets the violin under his chin and plucks at the strings to check. It’s tuned, _somewhat_. But he’ll keep his mouth shut. He smiles stupidly either way. Noticing the high shelf with a strange looking lamp, he finds himself setting the violin back down and walking towards it.

“It’s for Excalibur,” Merlin starts. “There’s hardly any sun out being the season that it is, so—A grow light, for—“

“Photosynthesis,” Quinlan finishes, tamping down the warmth. 

Turning his head back to face Merlin, he finds that the back corner of the room is occupied by an L-shaped table. Its workspace is _massive_ and he’s giddy with the possibilities.

Merlin’s busy fiddling with something on the table and suddenly the height of the workspace becomes taller. “You can configure this to however you please, sitting or standing.”

He tries not to be overwhelmed with that. There’s something Merlin’s not saying. The man expects him to grow up here.

Merlin finally turns back to him and something flits by his expression. “What’s wrong with your face?” Merlin’s tone is unreadable.

Taken aback and mildly offended, Quinlan’s tempted to quip something heinous like, ‘ _I don’t know, it’s half your DNA._ ’ But a certain kind of seriousness in Merlin stops him.

The man gestures to his own face, prompting Quinlan to do the same to his. That’s when the smarting pain reminds him--Oh.

“Oh, is there a bruise?” Quinlan asks curiously. “I was taking a shower and I forgot about that bloody dead dog on the shelf. Slipped on my way out.”

He’s under the impression that Merlin wasn’t told of Roxanne Morton. Quinlan thinks he’d rather be on the safe side.

Merlin’s expression is mildly dubious for a moment but Quinlan works on getting rid of it, huffing, “Will he stuff you as well if you die?”

“What?” Merlin’s taken aback, perturbed.

“I don’t think the man has many friends. Besides, I think he likes you.”

Merlin scoffs, finally distracted. “Over my dead body.”

“Exactly the point,” Quinlan sniffs, teasing.

“ _If_ I die,” Merlin retorts, walking towards the tall wardrobe, gesturing for Quinlan to open it.

Raising his eyebrows, Quinlan opens the wardrobe to find that certain articles of clothing on hangers have been pushed to the sides to accentuate the barely noticeable seams of the back wall.

Which can’t be a wall, because it’s the inside of the wardrobe and—He glances back to Merlin who shrugs, doing a bad job of being innocent. Quinlan palms at the surface, feeling around the place. If he’s right and this opens, there’s nowhere else it could possibly open to but his room. But this area could only correspond to his bookshelf, so it would be blocked either way and—

The surface gives, the heavy weight slowly swinging forward to his room. Quinlan gapes, sluggishly stepping forward. He pulls it back slightly and looks to the mechanism, seeing that a part of his bookshelf has been made into a secret door and that the whole thing is holding up the weight of new books he hasn’t even seen there before.

Part of him wants to scold Merlin for entering his room without his permission, but that’s not a priority at the moment, nor is it a battle that he can win.

Stunned and speechless, his mind tries to work out the process of this renovation.

It’s what the children in the Lycée would call ‘ _cool’_ , but in reality it’s hardly necessary. Quinlan could easily walk out his door and take two steps to the guest room. This is excessive.

Why, then, is he terribly pleased?

“Merry Christmas,” Merlin murmurs, still on the other side.

Oh.

 _Merde_.

He doesn’t have anything for him. At least, nothing final.

To be fair, Quinlan can’t be blamed for forgetting it’s Christmas. There’s plenty of information that needed sorting. He gets distracted sometimes.

Later, he conjures a shoddy child drawing of Merlin [working](http://i.imgur.com/Z4ewtI8.jpg) and surrounded by computers. He even makes sure to add the glasses Merlin insists on _not_ wearing around Quinlan. There's a stigma with glasses among children, but he didn't think Merlin of all people would be victim to it. Maybe the man will start wearing them often if he knows he's not an embarrassment to the family just for wearing it.

In addition, Quinlan takes the origami bird he was working on in Galahad’s house, making sure to colour it in with a merlin’s colouring and design. 

Quinlan slips them through the crack of Merlin’s office door after a few moments of consternation. He tries not to feel too bad. Besides, Merlin seems like the man who can afford things for himself. What else could Quinlan possibly give him?

After much deliberation, he returns downstairs to also slip in his redrafted letter to his grandparents, putting a note to _‘please send it to them if you have the time’_.

He’s banking on the Christmas spirit. In fact, he's so lost in it that he almost forgets that this time last year his mother was still here, still alive.

There's that familiar ache, but it's dulled to a degree.

Perhaps there's proper progress in him moving on.

It's not quite happiness, it's more of contentment. 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rip  
> lmao fake he gonna be destroyed

**Author's Note:**

> Might have violence in it.


End file.
